Unprotected
by water4willows
Summary: It's 11:11pm when the call comes in. (OR what would have happened in 5x07 had this fangirl been allowed to write the episode). Plenty of hurt!Stiles, Sheriff's POV, spoilers for the episode, obviously goes AU after last week's episode. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: I adore Teen Wolf, but the show always manages to frustrate the hell out of me in the hurt/comfort department. Take Strange Frequencies, for instance. Stiles was knocked unconscious and the jeep set on fire. There should have been so much more there, but the writers chose to pull Stiles out without nary a scratch. This story is my take on what would have happened had Stiles not been able to just get up and walk away from that. Popular belief seems to be that the Sheriff's first name is John, so that's what I went with here. This is my first soiree into the Teen Wolf universe and I hope I do it justice!_

 _Teen Wolf is the property of MTV and none of the characters in this work of fiction belong to me except for my OCs. This is un-beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Enjoy._

* * *

 **Unprotected**

There's a clock that sits on top of a dusty old file cabinet in one corner of the Sheriff's office. The cabinet itself is filled with the moldering remains of old personnel files; fossilized remnants of a bygone age when his people used to fill out the forms by hand rather than enter the data into computers. No one's been in the cabinet for years, which is probably why John has never thought to just unplug the clock and throw the damn thing away. It's an unattractive, plastic throwback to misguided 1980s taste and he's pretty sure no one would miss it. It isn't even digital and keeps its time with little white numbers painted onto brown plastic leaves that clack against each other each time the minute flips.

For 20 of those clacks Sheriff John Stilinski has been standing in his office with arms loosely folded, listening to one of his deputies' air his grievances over a recent scheduling snafu. He's been trying his best to appear as though he's actively listening and empathizing with the red-faced Deputy Bara, nodding when appropriate and looking properly affronted when expected, but his eyes keep flicking over to that damn clock. It's edging its way towards a number he's very familiar with, and one that has haunted his life for years.

Ever since John lost his wife to a type of dementia only talked about in research books all those years ago, the number has followed him everywhere. It's shown up so many times on death certificates and incident reports that it's changed him. It's turned him into one of those people who believes in signs and omens. That's what Beacon Hills and its supernatural infection has done to him. It's burrowed into his life so completely that when the clock lingers for a moment on 11:10 then flips idly over to 11:11, Stilinski can't help but flinch. And to make matters worse, Bara picks up on it, and stops talking just long enough to glance over his shoulder at the clock.

"Everything alright, Sherriff?" He asks apprehensively, one eyebrow raised as he turns back around.

"Yeah, it's fine," John shrugs it off easily enough. "You were saying?"

But Bara doesn't get the chance to launch back into his tirade. A dispatch comes over the airwaves then that crackles across every radio in the precinct and shuts his deputy up for good. It's a call John suspects he has subconsciously been expecting to get for a while now, but one he never let himself believe would actually come.

He's not entirely sure how it happens, but Stilinski doesn't become aware again until he's pushing out through the front doors of the precinct and into the unexpected air of an unseasonably cool Beacon Hills summer night. He's got his keys to his cruiser clutched so tightly in his hand that they slice into his flesh, nearly drawing blood. Bara's hot on his heels yelling at him from a few feet back to just slow the hell down, but John barely registers any of it. He's too busy processing, too preoccupied with tripping over words that should never be linked together. Words like fire… and ambulance… and _Stiles_.

"Sheriff, for the love of god, STOP!" Bara finally catches up with him in the middle of the parking lot and somehow manages to halt him with a heavy hand on his forearm. John shakes it off immediately and continues on until Bara slips in front of him, blocking his path.

"Get out of my way, Deputy," he growls dangerously, and while a little of the fight drains out of Bara then, he doesn't move or stand down.

"Give me the keys and I will." Bara surprises the hell out of him by jutting an expectant hand out into the electrified space between them. John stares at it for a moment, stunned. Bara isn't exactly one of his most aggressive of officers so the blatant display of defiance is throwing John through a loop.

"And what the hell makes you think I'll do that?" His voice doesn't even sound like his own and a little of the color drains away from his deputy's face when John looks back up at him.

"Because, _Sir_ ," Bara answers back thickly but still managing to emphasize the word like maybe reminding John of who he is might somehow calm him down (it doesn't), "you're in no condition to drive so just give me the keys and I'll take you there myself."

John's first instinct is to refuse, to do whatever it takes to retain his right to recklessly barrel down the city streets and towards his son who could be dead at this moment for all he knows. He tightens his grip on the keys and Bara puts his hands out further.

The kid just doesn't know when to quit.

" _John_ ," he begs quietly, coming in close so that the handful of deputies passing them by on their way to the call can't overhear. "Please."

John knows that he's being irrational and that Bara is just trying to help, but it still feels like his deputy is trying to insinuate himself into a situation where he's not wanted and certainly doesn't belong. This is Stiles, they're talking about. _Stiles_. John's own flesh and blood and there's nothing he won't do, no lengths he won't go to make sure his boy is made safe. If that means running into burning buildings, then so be it. But if Bara is there, if John gives up the keys and lets the young deputy in, then he's going to try and stop him. He's going to try and hold John back from doing whatever it takes to get to his son.

"Sheriff, all I want to do is drive you there," he states, as if picking up on John's internal struggle. They stand in stalemate beneath the weak light of the parking lot lamps, neither man willing to back down.

"You don't understand…"

"But I do," Bara interrupts, taking another step forward. "I do, boss. It's Stiles. Just let me get you there in one piece."

It's the eyes that do it, those pleading yet determined eyes begging him to see reason. John knows in that moment that nothing he says or do will get Bara to back down now, so he begrudgingly shoves the keys into his still outstretched hand, looking down at the pavement as he does. Its wet like it's just rained, only he doesn't remember the storm.

Shaking off the awkwardness of the moment as best they can, both men climb into John's cruiser without comment and Bara peels them out of the parking lot on the screech of dry tires against wet pavement.

While his deputy focuses on careening them down the thankfully empty city streets, John gets on the radio to dispatch and tries to get more information on what's going on. The initial call involved a single vehicle incident with injuries, but other than that, no one can tell him anything. All units are still en route to the scene but Cyndi at the dispatch desk relays what she can in short bursts of communication meant to keep the frequency open as much as possible. What she has isn't much, but it's _something_. Some kid called it in. Could have been Stiles, but maybe not, she's still too new to recognize his voice. Ambulance is minutes out and the fire department is right behind them because now there are reports trickling in from the neighbors of full on flames coming from behind the clinic.

"Floor it," John mutters, glancing over at Bara whose white knuckling the steering wheel with hands at ten and two. His deputy obeys instantly and John is pressed back into the seat.

He has no idea what he's going to find, what chaos they'll pull up on when they eventually reach the clinic, but his brain is more than happy to supply him with all manner of theories; most of them dark. They usually end with him on his knees, covered in blood with Stiles' name on his lips, and nothing he tries can make the images stop. He's defenseless against the pressure they exert and as Bara hurtles them towards the clinic and the unknown, he grabs hold of the safety bar above the window for something, anything to anchor him in place.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Most of this is written and just needs to be tweaked so expect regular and quick updates. Un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine._

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When Bara finally skids the cruiser to a halt in the lot behind the clinic John is up and out of his seat before the kid can even throw it in park. Whatever it was he'd been expecting to find when they finally got here, it wasn't this. It wasn't to roll up on every single emergency vehicle in Beacon Hills jammed into the little lot behind the clinic or to see his own son's jeep at the epicenter of world war three.

John stumbles away from the cruiser, Stiles' name ghosting past his lips.

The massive red fire department engines may be taking up half the lot, but John can still see the jeep. He can still see it through the darting bodies and the smoke and the kick in the gut, all-encompassing _terror_ that descends down around him at what he's seeing.

 _"_ _Oh my god."_ He's not sure who mutters it, him or Bara, but time lurches forward again and before he knows it, he's got Bara wrapped around his middle, two of his other guys hanging from his arms and the fire chief himself standing in front of him with arms raised, trying to talk him down.

But John there's not talking John down tonight. Tonight he fights like a rabid animal and it takes every single one of those men holding him down to keep him from running into the fire and to his son.

The heat of the fire is intense. It reaches him even here on the periphery and it feels like his skin is about to bubble off, but the pain is tolerable. It's tolerable because it's nothing compared to the primal, parental instinct to protect his son that roars to life in his veins so spectacularly that he actually bites and kicks, gnashes and screams at the men who hold him down. He surges forward on that pure instinct alone; _find_ , _protect_ , _make safe_ pushing him forward relentlessly and overriding any thought he has of maintaining his professional decorum.

"Jesus John, calm down!" Bara pleads at his side, sounding scared but refusing to let go. "You've got to let them do their jobs!" But John doesn't hear it.

Even though he knows there's nothing he can do, even though he knows if he runs into that blazing inferno it might just take his life too, he fights like a man possessed to be allowed to get to his son.

"Stiles! Jesus, let me go! Stiles! STILES!" He repeats the name like a mantra. Like if saying it enough will produce his son from within the billowing smoke and red, licking flame that surrounds the jeep and reaches for the sky.

"Sherriff Stilinski, please!"

They've got him down on one knee now. Bara's hand is fisted in his collar, forcing his face towards the dirt. The deputy's lips are right next to his ear and warm breath splays over his neck.

"We're going to let you up, but you've gotta calm the fuck down!"

John lets his head fall and draws in a ragged breath that shudders his entire frame. He's a cop, for christ's sake, and until he sees Stiles' dead body with his own two eyes, he can't give up on his kid. So he pulls together the bits of himself that are still capable of rational thought and claws his way out of the red haze his panic has pushed him down into. Bara stays close beside him, offering a hand when John stumbles, but he ignores it. Just like he ignores his men who let him get up but hover nearby like they half expect him to go ape shit again and try to break through the perimeter.

The panic doesn't entirely go away, but John does manage to get himself back under control and he stands for unknowable moments on the loose stone of the clinic's back lot, watching his only son's jeep burn in numb silence. The stupid, piece of shit car he couldn't talk Stiles into getting rid of this summer is lying upside down in the gravel with windows shattered and frame utterly engulfed in flames. The interior is nothing more than a concentrated box of thick, swirling smoke and John can't see Stiles anywhere. His eyes dart in every imaginable direction, absorbing every bit of the chaotic scene that they can, but with the fire trucks and the squad cars and the swirl of the lights, he can't make sense of any of it.

God, this isn't supposed to be happening! Stiles is part of the pack. He should have been protected at all times. So where the hell is everyone? Why isn't Scott here, pulling the jeep door off its hinges with that wolfy, superhuman strength? Why isn't Liam with him, helping to pull Stiles from the burning wreckage without fear because they both know they'll heal from whatever burns they receive?

Why does it fall to John to be the only one standing here watching as the fire department tries to control the flames slowly devouring his son's jeep?

 _'Because_ ,' he reminds himself, ' _they're all at the high school trying to protect the town from the latest supernatural threat.'_

Scott and Lydia had come up with some harebrained plan and he knows Parish is with them right now. Stiles wasn't even going to be there, which is probably why John agreed to go along with the plan in the first place….

But now look what's happened.

Stiles was left unprotected and the only other person on the police force who actually knows what the hell is going on in Beacon Hills, isn't here with him. John is utterly alone, and if the firemen find something they can't explain, it's going to fall to him to try and cover it up.

Shit, is this what his life's been reduced to? Constant worry that some supernatural scourge is going to come and take his only son away from him? Leave him alone to pick up the pieces and explain away the impossible things left behind? Well he's tired of it. Tired of the lies and the cover-ups and the constant danger his little dwindling family keeps getting into. He didn't sign up for this. Stiles most certainly did not. Yet they continue to pay the price for it in blood nonetheless.

As if to give credence to his darkening thoughts, the seemingly uncontrollable fire must finally reach the gas tank of Stile's jeep because a moment later a fiery explosion knocks John and everyone else standing in the lot back a few steps. He instinctively throws himself over the closest person to him (who just happens to be Bara) and tries not to cry out when they're pushed over the hood of the cruiser by the force of the blast. They land on the other side of the car, bits of smoldering leather and red hot metal pattering against the hood right where their heads had been.

"What the hell!" Bara coughs, taking the hand John holds out to help him up off of the ground. "That should not have just happened!"

The firemen are swarming the jeep, redoubling all their efforts on trying to get the blaze back under control. John can feel something wet making its way down the side of his face, but he has no time to pay attention to it. Bara's comment has him worried and he's too busy searching the frenzied scene for his son who is still nowhere to be seen.

There's a quiet moment of introspection that always seems to foreshadow tragedy. It's a strange, disjointed moment whene time seems to slow down or stop altogether to give it's unsuspecting victim a moment to think back on all the things they'll never get to say or do with the one they're about to loose. John's pretty sure he's about to get his moment when he hears someone calling out his name.

At first John chalks it up to wishful thinking and then as a trick of his already addled brain. But when the voice doesn't stop he finally pauses to look around for the source.

"Sheriff! Sheriff Stilinski! Over here!"

John tilts his head to the side trying to get a fix on who's calling for him and finally spots Deaton a moment later. The animal clinic's owner is standing near the rear bumper of an ambulance and waiving his arms wildly in the air. Without even thinking, John takes off towards the vet at a sprint, Bara following close behind. At first John wants to tell the kid to get lost, but is happy he doesn't in the end. The swirling lights of the emergency vehicles reflect off the brick of the buildings around them and make it difficult to run. They distort the space around him and throw off his balance and Bara has to grab him at the elbow just to keep him upright when they finally reach the other side of the ambulance.

Any other time John would have rebuffed such help. Any other situation and he would have pushed his deputy's hands away from him and insisted that he was fine, but not this time. This time he clings to whatever support he can find because, as the now smoldering remains of Stile's jeep disappear behind the ambulance, John can see that the paramedics are working feverishly over a prone body lying against the pale stones of the lot.

John can't tell who the person on the ground is at first, but there's another boy hovering on the periphery of the chaos, wringing his hands in worry. The act is so familiar that for one glorious moment, John's jackhammering heart lets him believe the pacing kid is his; his Stiles. His brain even goes along with it, accepting for one moment that his son is okay. But when that soot-smudged face finally looks up at him, John can immediately see that it isn't Stiles. It's Theo Raeken, the last person John would have ever expected to find with his boy. He almost rushes the teen then, anything to find out just what the hell is going here, but the hectic commotion playing out on the ground in front of him chases all other conscious thought from his mind.

Stiles, his headstrong, spastic, beautiful boy is sprawled across the gravel, eyes closed and face spattered in blood. The paramedics are struggling to intubate him and something that sounds like _obstructed airway_ drifts up and out of the confusing cacophony of sound bouncing about him. John's knees begin to quake beneath him, and it's suddenly not just Bara holding him up, but Deaton as well.

"What the hell happened?" He asks to no one in particular and it's Deaton who actually answers.

"S-someone tripped the alarm," the vet stammers as they all watch the paramedics work frantically over Stiles. "I just wanted to make sure they were okay."

John glances over at the vet. Under the flickering red and blue light of the emergency vehicles it looks as though he's about ready to pass out. John understands how he feels. It's too much, you see. Too much like when he lost Claudia, and he doesn't think he'll be strong enough to survive another loss like that. He's nowhere near strong enough to lose them both.

So he prays.

God help him, he closes his eyes and sends up a plea to whatever deity might be listening that his child's life be spared.

When no answer is forthcoming John watches on in silence as the paramedics finally stabilize Stiles enough to load him into the back of their rig. When they're finished, they hold the doors open for him and John is secretly relived. He knows the two EMT's manning the ambulance tonight well and they wisely haven't tried to bar him from entering the back of the rig with his boy.

That's a good thing. Because if they had, there's no telling what John would have done.


	3. Chapter 3

John would like to be able to tell people that he remembers exactly what happened on the ambulance ride over to the hospital, but it would all be a lie. The truth is, the memories are nothing but a confusing, disjointed blur inside his brain anymore. What he does remember is that Stiles' condition got worse en route, and that the clammy hand John had somehow managed to capture in his own when he first got into the ambulance, was wrenched from his grip at some point during the ride. Now all he knows is that the men maneuvering his son's gurney through the ambulance bay and into the ER are moving fast and he gets left behind near the front intake desk without so much as a backwards glance from the paramedics.

The place they take him, it's not somewhere John can follow, but a piece of his soul tears itself away from his center and follows after his son as he disappears from view.

"Sherriff?" A tentative female voice sounds from behind his elbow, and he knows just from the tone and the formal use of his title that it's not the nurse he was hoping for.

"I need Melissa McCall," he states without emotion, not even bothering to turn around.

"Now."

John isn't even sure Melissa is working tonight but he can't do this on his own. If the doctors come out from those doors to tell him his only son is dead, it'll be over. There won't be any reason to keep going, to get out of bed in the mornings. There won't be any reason to brew coffee or cook meals. No reason to go to work or to sleep or to even breathe. That's what Stiles' death will do to him.

Melissa is thankfully working at the hospital tonight and she arrives at his side a few minutes later on a breath of sterile air thats filled with the just the faintest hint of her favorite perfume.

"John?" She whispers, touching his arm, and he turns his tear-moistened eyes in her direction.

It's been years, decades really, since he's cried, but that doesn't stop the tears from coming on hard and fast.

Melissa McCall, mother, advocate, _friend_ , gathers him up in her arms and somehow manages to help him contain the heavy sobs that wrack his frame before he can even stop them. He doesn't know the full extent of Stiles' injuries, but he cries like he's already lost him. Melissa absorbs it all with her silent and resilient strength until he has nothing left to give and she deposits them into the cold, uncomfortable seating just inside the ER doors.

"Have they told you anything?" She asks when he finally manages to get himself back under some semblance of control.

John shakes his head. "Only that he wasn't breathing on his own."

"Ok," Melissa nods, "I'm going to find out what's going on. Wait here for me," and disappears from his side just as quickly as she arrived. For a moment, John is lost and doesn't know exactly what to do with himself. Normally, this would be the point when he'd call in the cavalry, but he's not really sure who to call or who could come. The rest of the pack is busy with their plans at the school and it isn't like he can just pick up the phone and call Claudia. No, he really is alone in this, just like he's been alone in every crisis since his wife died.

Even though he's pretty sure it won't do any good, John does eventually call Scott on his cell. Someone should know what's happening to Stiles but, as expected, the call goes straight to voicemail. He leaves a message anyway letting the teen know that he should get over to the hospital as soon as he can. After that, it's just a waiting game.

The rules of the waiting game are relatively simple. They mostly involve Sheriff Stilinski pacing up and down a little stretch of ER floor trying not to snap at the well-meaning nurses who stop by every so often to ask if they can get him anything. It also involves wondering if the next doctor who breezes out through those double doors is going to give him some news about his son. Melissa has been gone for a long while and John can't help but invent all manner of horrors that could keep her away. Eventually, though, Melissa does push through those doors and John doesn't miss the blood speckling the lower half of her scrubs.

"He's alive," she promises with hands held up in placation when he shoots up and out of his seat. He'd believe her, if it weren't for her eyes. They just don't back up the rushed reassurance.

"He's alive, John," she repeats when she can see that he's not buying it, "but he's not out of the woods just yet."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" The question comes out angry and harsher than he intends but Melissa takes no offence. Her features soften and her eyes round in sympathy as he steels himself to hear the worst.

"He's got some internal injuries from when the jeep flipped so they need to get him into surgery right away. Do we have your consent for that?" John nods numbly, knowing she's not finished yet.

"Okay," she replies with a gentle smile and reassuring touch to his forearm, easing him back into his seat.

"So, Stiles also has a few superficial burns on his arms and legs, but those should heal just fine in a few weeks. He's really lucky. From what the paramedics told me, it could have been a lot worse."

John thinks back on the fiery inferno that had been Stiles' jeep and wonders if it was Theo who pulled his son from the burning vehicle.

"But there is something else that has us all a little worried," Melissa continues, going serious and John almost laughs at himself for thinking that he's heard the worst of it.

 _Oh here we go._

"Stiles suffered some spinal trauma up near his neck, probably from when the jeep flipped." She reaches her hand up around her neck to show him exactly where. "Now they can't confirm anything without running more tests, but the swellings bad enough that he's not able to breathe on his own and..."

"Wait a second," John interrupts, brain finally processing what she's just said and coming to its own swift and awful realization in the span of only a moment, "are you telling me that my son, my Stiles, is _paralyzed_?" It doesn't seem right that a word like 'paralyzed' should exist or that John should use it in the same sentence as his own son's name. But it does exist and he does use it and Melissa looks away as her eyes turn sad. When she neither confirms nor denies what he's just put into words, John collapses bonelessly back against the chair, coming to his own conclusions.

"Oh my god!" _This can't be happening._ "Jesus christ, what do I do?"

"Hey!" Melissa interrupts as the doomsday thoughts start to form in his head almost instantly. She turns her body towards him and captures his face in her hands so that he has no choice but to meet her eyes. "Nothing, and I mean _nothing_ , is certain at this point. For all we know, the swelling could go down and he'll be perfectly fine once he's had the chance to recover a little." The pads of her thumbs gently caress the sides of his face. "Your son is stable and he's alive and they're going to do everything they can to help him get through this, so don't you dare give up on him yet." Her gaze is imploring, searching, and he looses himself in it for a moment. "This is hardly a death sentence, John."

She drops her hands away from his face and takes his trembling hands in hers. The grip is bone-crushing and he senses its safe to believe what she says. Melissa was in there with the doctors, she saw first hand what happened, so he'll let her talk him away from the ledge.

"So what now?" His voice sounds broken and cracked when he asks it and Melissa releases her grip to put a hand on his knee.

"As soon as he's out of surgery, I'll take you back to see him."

"Any idea how long that will be?"

Melissa looks away thoughtfully. "I'm no surgeon, but judging by what I heard in the trauma room, it could be a while. Whoever performs the surgery will be out to give you more details and I'll make sure that happens sooner rather than later."

It's kind of nice to know he's got someone on his side in all this and he tries not to feel the loss so keenly when she leaves him at last to go in search of more answers.

"Melissa?" He stops her one final time, before she can disappear back behind those damn doors.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Thanks to everyone for all the follows, favorites and reviews. They're greatly appreciated!_

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Melissa is right; it does take hours before John is allowed to see his son again. Eight, to be exact. Eight hours of the worst kind of torture imaginable.

Left to his own devices, John now knows the exact pattern etched into the tiles of the ER floor. He's walked the halls enough to know that he'll never, ever have that pattern in his own home, that's for damn sure. It's too clinical, too sterile for his liking and now he'll always associate it with that one time his only son may or may not have been paralyzed.

Eventually Melissa put him up in an empty waiting room and about 6 hours into his eight-hour vigil, the pack finally shows up. It's Scott who pushes in first looking as defeated and world weary as John's ever seen him. Lydia and Malia are right behind him and when their Alpha stops in the middle of the room, they unconsciously take up position beside him. Any other time John would have marveled at how much like a pack they really are, but tonight he's having a hard time getting over the fact that Stiles' "pack" left him unprotected.

"How is he?" Scott asks in a small voice and John can feel his head beginning to shake from side to side in bewilderment.

How is Stiles… now isn't that just the question of the night. Or is it early morning now? He's too far gone to remember. The fact of the matter is, John doesn't know how Stiles is because, despite the fact that he's been reassured by countless people that his son's internal injuries will heal, there's still the chance that his boy may never walk again. John wants to dump all of this and more onto Scott. Wants to shock the hell out of the teen standing in front of him with the cold, unforgiving truth of it all: that he is to blame for what's happened to Stiles because Scott wasn't there. None of them were there, and now look what's happened.

But when John looks up to deliver the 50 lashes he has ready to go, sharp and destructive at the edge of his tongue, the looks he gets from the kids standing before him stop him cold. Lydia has those large, lamp like eyes of hers turned on him. They're saucer-wide and filled to the brim with barely checked panic and unshed tears. Malia is trembling slightly behind Scott and the alpha reaches a hand back for her to take, instinctively sensing the rise in her agitation before he even sees it. Scott stands in front of them both trying desperately to appear strong, but failing miserably. Even though his jaw is set in a hard, slightly off center line, John can see the muscles at the side of his face rippling feverishly. He's puffed up slightly like he's anticipating a fight, but it's the eyes that give him away. They're filled with a child like innocence; a begging, pleading entreaty for John to just wrap this arms around the kid and tell him that everything is going to be okay. That Stiles, his best friend in all the world, is going to be just fine.

 _Christ, they really are just children, aren't they?_

Whatever anger-fueled inferno was trying to work itself up in his gut quiets at that realization and all the wind goes out of his sails in an instant. John rakes his hands over the rough and unshaven skin of his face and sighs heavily.

They're just _kids_.

Kids that haven't even graduated high school yet and here John sits, beyond pissed that they were unable to pull off the impossible tonight. He's the friggin' Sheriff of Beacon Hills and even he couldn't have protected Stiles from this. So how can he stand here and pass judgment on Scott when, for the past 5 years, the teen has done nothing but try and keep the people of this town safe?

In the end, John does tell them everything about what's happened to Stiles, but not in the accusatory tone he had prepared. No, he takes them through what little he does know in a voice he normally reserves for victim's families, which, he realizes with a sudden jolt, is exactly what Scott, Malia and Lydia are to Stiles. They're his family, as much as John is, and they take the news of Stiles' condition exactly as he expects. Scott gets angry, but tries to hide it. Malia walks over to the chair beside him and curls herself into a little ball of standoffishness like she's not quite capable of processing what he's just told them. Lydia's eyes somehow manage to get wider (if that's even possible) and she falls into a shocked silence John is kind of relieved to hear... because at least she's not screaming.

John glances down at the knees of his pants and wipes his sweaty palms across them. The fabric is light so the moisture leaves behind a dark spot, but it doesn't linger long. Scott doesn't linger for long either and disappears with Lydia a few minutes later to go in search of his mother. Melissa has been giving John regular updates on Stiles' surgery, but she wasn't able to get out of her shift entirely or wait with him. There was some kind of emergency down in the ER and Scott leaves with Lydia to go and see if they can track her down. The three teens have been exchanging worried glances ever since they arrived and John suspects that there's more going on here than just what's happening to Stiles. Maybe it has something to do with their business at the high school tonight, but he doesn't get the chance to ask. Scott and Lydia take off to go and find Melissa, probably to talk to her about things they can't disclose to John just yet, and he suddenly finds himself alone with Malia. At first John doesn't know what to say to the girl and the tension is palpable in the room around them.

John likes Malia, he really does. She's a sweet kid and seems to be one of the only members of the pack who actually gives a damn about Stiles' safety. She's protective of him, and it's a trait John can't help but find endearing. Their relationship has been good for his son and that in itself is enough to earn the girl his trust. So they sit in silence for a long while and when a tired looking surgeon finally enters the waiting room, pulling a scrub cap from his head, it's Malia who notices him first. She perks up in the chair beside John and he wonders if its because she can smell blood. He's not quite sure how all these wolf-y powers work or if they're even the same for Malia, being a werecoyote instead of a normal wolf. Perhaps he'll ask her about it someday. Right now though, he only has eyes for that doctor.

Being the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, John has gotten to know some of the doctors at the hospital on a first name basis, George Wilson included. So when he pulls himself up out of his chair and meets the physician halfway, the ageing trauma surgeon doesn't greet John like the anxious parent he is, but rather as an old friend. John is both unnerved and relieved when it happens.

"John, he's pulled through just fine!" George smiles brightly, putting out a hand for John to shake. The doctor's grip has a powdery dryness to it like he's just taken off his gloves.

"Has there been any change?" John fires off, no longer in the mood to be handled. "Is he still paralyzed?"

These are the questions that have been battering against him incessantly for the past eight hours and he's tired of waiting around for the answers. Wilson runs a hand down the side of his weary face and thinks about his reply.

"Too soon to tell," the ageing surgeon finally sighs. "The x-rays all came back clean, so there's nothing broken. We're not really going to know the full extent of his injuries until the swelling goes down and he wakes up."

It's the same answer Melissa gave him… and the initial ER doc who came out to give him an update… and the other trauma surgeon that was going to help George with Stiles' internal injuries. They've all said the same damn thing but John doesn't think he can play this game. He wants his answers now. He wants to know if he needs to go out and commit justifiable homicide, because who ever did this to his son isn't going to get away with it. They're going to pay with their lives and whether or not that they get to keep their limbs while John delivers his justice, depends entirely on whether or not his son ever walks again.

Wilson, as if sensing the sudden dark turn to his thoughts, claps a hand on his shoulder. "He's a tough kid, John. He'll pull through! And if not, they've come a long way with therapy these days."

The doctor's words are meant to comfort him but all they manage to do is make him feel worse. He's not ready to start thinking about what happens if Stiles isn't all right… Stiles is always all right. He always pulls through shit like this with a grin and a _'oh come on, dad!'_ when John spots the blood.

John tries to return the reassuring smile Wilson flashes him, but it falls flat, and the doctor leaves him then with a vague promise that John will get to see his son soon. He's completely forgotten about Malia and by the time he turns back around to head for his chair, he finally remembers she's there. The teen is sitting ram-rod straight up in her seat and fighting with everything she has against unshed tears.

Stiles has shared a little of what Malia is going through with John, so he knows all of this must be completely overwhelming to her. Stiles hurt, while seemingly commonplace anymore, is out of her wheelhouse and the evidence of that fact is clearly painted across her face. She clutches the armrests of her chair in a white knuckled grip and he worries for a very real moment that she might wolf-out right then and there in the waiting room.

John quickens his pace and eases himself back down beside her. "Malia?" He tries quietly and the girl looks over at him with slightly glowing eyes.

 _Shit._

"Malia, kiddo, you have to calm down," he pleads, turning in his seat and putting a reassuring hand on her back. "He's okay. Stiles is going to be okay."

"I could smell it," she announces unexpectedly and John stiffens, dropping his hand.

"Smell what, kiddo?"

"His blood," she replies and looks away.

"He's going to be okay, Malia," John tries to state definitively, but he can tell right away she's not buying it. She doesn't believe it any more than he does because they both need proof; actual physical evidence that Stiles is alive and can wiggle his goddamn toes before they ever do.

John pushes out of his chair again, frustrated at all the ineffectual waiting and has half a mind to go and find the first nurse he can and demand to be taken to see his son. He'll use force if he needs to, threats of a night in the slammer if he thinks it will help, but thankfully, he doesn't have to result to either. Melissa shuffles in a few seconds later with Scott in tow and beckons for John from the door. Malia gets up to follow but Melissa stops the girl with a gentle hand on her shoulder when they reaches the threshold.

"Just his dad for right now," the nurse murmurs gently, brushing Malia's bangs back away from her face in obvious affection. "He's still in recovery and I'm not even supposed to let the him in." She inclines her head at John as she says it. "Scott will wait with you."

Malia looks like she wants to argue, but allows herself to be lead away by Scott and John follows Melissa out into the hall. "How are you holding up?" She asks, squeezing his hand as she leads him into an unfamiliar part of the hospital.

"Ask me that again after they tell me if my son is ever going to walk again," is all John replies with and Melissa lets his hand drop. He knows she just wants to help, but what he needs right now, she could never give… Not unless she can suddenly conjure up miracles.

"Okay look," Melissa says as she rounds on him when they finally reach the recovery ward entrance, "I'm not supposed to let you in here so keep your head down and don't you dare make me regret this. You get five minutes." He nods, hoping he can keep his promise, and she lets him onto the ward.

The recovery room is probably the one part of the hospital John has never seen before. There isn't much too it, just a few rows of neatly made beds cordoned off by curtains and a nursing staff that never seems to sit still as it constantly monitors the beds that are occupied. Stiles is in the bed farthest from the door and John has a hard time keeping that promise to Melissa when he finally sets eyes on his son.

For immeasurable moments, all John Stilinski can do is stand there and stare at his boy. Stiles, his perpetual creature of energy and life, lies pale and still against hospital sheets with half his freckled face obscured by ventilator tubes. His honey colored eyes are closed and his dark lashes seem to disappear into the bruised semi-circles that have formed beneath his eyes. What little skin isn't covered in bruises and scrapes his hidden by bandages and all of it is so utterly and incomprehensibly _wrong_ , that his heart actually hurts. The realization that his son, his baby boy, is this sick has him reaching out for something, anything that might keep him from passing out. Melissa must sense his inevitable demise, because she somehow manages to get a chair under him just as he looses the battle with his knocking knees.

For a moment, John can't even bring himself to reach for his son; so afraid that even the slightest touch will send his child tumbling over whatever precarious precipice he's perched upon right now. His neck is still immobilized and he's carefully laid out on the bed, but these precautions just don't feel like they're enough. There should be steel bars and doors with locks on them protecting his son, not flimsy plastic braces and some angry head nurse who keeps shooting John disapproving glances every so often as he sits and shakes.

Yet even though he's terrified of hurting Stiles further, the yearning to touch his son is too great and John eventually reaches through the bars of the bed to capture one of Stiles' pale hands in his own. It's hot to the touch and the skin feels papery thin, but John holds on for dear life. He sits like that for a long while just watching the mechanical rise and fall of child's chest as he listens to the gentle beep of the heart monitor and the quiet commotion of the hospital around them as he slowly comes apart at the seams.

In the quiet of the recovery room, it's hard not to let the dark thoughts take over. They sneak in; little snippets here and there of how life is going to change irrevocably for the both of them should Stiles not be able to pull through this and make a full recovery. For his entire life it's always been about the physical with his son and John just can't imagine a life of stillness for the boy. It's unfathomable really… the worst possible fate that could ever befall him, and yet here they are, staring down that very real possibility with no guarantee that it won't become their new reality.

So what's does it all mean? No more lacrosse, that's for damn sure. No more riding bikes or fixing up that damn jeep. No more perpetual motion or fidgeting so much that it nearly drives John mad. No more incessant chatter, chatter that he would give anything to hear right about now in this moment, in this unforgiving quiet.

Life as they know it is over... Or is it? The Stilinski men haven't exactly had it easy over the years yet they've somehow managed to get through it all relatively unscathed. So what's to say they can't get through this thing, too? What's to say his imaginative and completely brilliant son wont find some way to spin this to his advantage? _Why the hell does it all have to change?_

John sits back in his chair and contemplates the little pep talk he's just given himself. The truth of the matter is, life _will_ change for Stiles if his body can't heal from the trauma it's suffered. John might be able to see an eventual happy ending eked out of all of this chaos, but that happy ending sits at the end of a long, hard road paved with nothing but grief and despair. Stiles will mourn the loss of his life and John will be there beside him, making sure his son never gives up hope, but he'd be a fool to think that getting Stiles to a place where he accepts what's happened to him wont be the hardest thing John's ever done.

"Sweetie?" Melissa is beside him again, and a hand on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts. "John, time's up." He looks up at her from his chair and whatever she sees painted on his face has her looking concerned and couching down beside him.

"It's just for a little while. They need some time to get him settled into a room. As soon as they're done you can stay with him for as long as you like," she promises and John makes himself nod.

He takes one last long look at his boy lying unconscious on the hospital bed, machines doing for him what his own body can't do for itself, and let's Melissa pull him away and back out into uncertainty.

* * *

A/N: Don't forget to take a second and leave me your thoughts in a review. They really do make me want to update faster :)


	5. Chapter 5

It doesn't take long for Stiles to get settled into a room and John wonders if he has Melissa to thank for the fact that it's private. With the kinds of friends Stiles has and the visitors that will inevitably file through his room, he figures it's a good thing he has his own space, least the people of Beacon Hills start to get wise to the fact that they share their town with werewolves and kitsunes and all other manner of supernatural creatures.

And speaking of supernatural creatures, John hasn't seen hide nor hair of Liam and Kira and that fact alone sets him to worrying again. Everything about the past day and a half has felt off but he can't get any of the kids to open up and talk to him about what's really going on. There's no doubt in his mind now that it has something to do with what happened at the high school last night. Whatever it was, it must have been bad, because they don't keep watch over Stiles in a group. They're taking it in shifts and John knows enough about pack mentality to recognize that something else is going on here. In the quiet stillness of Stiles' room there isn't much else to do but think, and trying to decide what Scott and his friends are keeping from him is easier than dealing with what's happening to his son right in front of him.

Stiles has always been pale but surgery and loss of blood has only made it worse. He looks lost in a sea of white. Like if John were to screw his eyes up just so Stiles would disappear from view entirely. The only thing keeping him visible is that damn ventilator and the color-coded wires that crisscross up from his body and away into their respective machines. They're pumping his son full of blood and fluids and monitoring every vital and John's never seen Stiles look so vulnerable and small.

Even though he kind of resents it for doing so, time marches on and light eventually begins to filter in through the drawn blinds in Stiles' room. At some point during the day, Melissa shoves a sandwich into his hands and demands that he eat. They're alone for a rare moment, and could argue, but he just doesn't have the strength anymore.

The sandwich tastes like cardboard and looks to be a sad leftover from the lunch rush in the hospital cafeteria, but he manages to force it down without much danger of it resurfacing. Melissa doesn't stop eyeing him until he finishes it completely.

John watches from his chair as Melissa McCall works silently around his son. She settles quickly into a well-rehearsed routine and her practiced hands are almost mesmerizing to watch. She hums lightly as she works and John doesn't realize his thoughts have drifted until she's kneeling down in front of him, shaking him slightly.

"John, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lies, shifting in his chair and shaking his head a little to try and dislodge the congestion. "Has there been any change?"

Melissa flicks her eyes back over to Stiles' and when her gaze returns to John there's something sad there. It looks for a moment like she wants to lie to him; to tell him that yes, there has been a change and yes, it's for the better. Melissa is a mother. She knows exactly what it is John is going through right now – especially after the events of the past few years – and he almost wants her to do it. He almost wants her to give him the same thing Scott asked of him in the waiting room earlier: to flat out lie and tell him that everything is going to be okay. That his son will pull through this and be the same Stiles that John saw off to school two days ago.

Only Melissa can't lie to him; or wont – he's not sure. She pats his knee again and offers up a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes before she replies with, "no change, but it's still early yet." John could put his fist through the wall right now, but all he lets himself do is nod stiffly before going back to watching the readouts of the monitors keeping watch over his son's vitals.

The next few days pass by in a blur of jumbled inactivity, each hour bleeding into the next with nothing new to set them apart. There's a constant stream of visitor's to Stiles' beside, and they're not all just Scott and the pack. A young kid John has never seen before named Mason makes a couple of appearances, as do some of Stiles' lacrosse buddies. A few of John's deputies even stop by and he feels a bit better knowing that things have been pretty quiet around Beacon Hills while he's been away. He's not _completely_ stupid, he knows Scott and the other kids are up to something and that crap is still going down somewhere in town if their staggered appearances at the hospital are anything to go by.

Each time someone new comes to take their shift with Stiles, John can't help but notice the lines of worry etched into each young face. Scott's is the worst and he always manages to look more anxious and haggard than the last time John saw him. He's got enough on his own plate to worry about, but on the 3rd day of Stiles' hospital confinement when Scott staggers into the room and falls into a chair looking utterly decimated, John can't help but try and penetrate this vow of silence the pack seems to have made.

"I wish you would just tell me what's going on, Scott," he says out of the blue and the teen's bloodshot eyes dart over to him instantly.

"What are you talking about?" His brow furrows and he tries to play it cool, but it doesn't work. For someone who's supposed to be this big, mysterious werewolf alpha, Scott McCall's awfully easy to read.

"You kids come in here day after day looking like you've just been up half the night going three rounds with a berserker." It's sad that John even knows to make that reference. "I know you're not camping out here at the hospital, so why don't you just do us all a favor and read me in on what the hell's going on here, Scott! Where's Liam? Why hasn't Kira been by?"

Whatever response John is expecting to get to his demands, it isn't to watch Scott McCall visibly deflate before his eyes or for the normally stoic alpha to heave one of those chest expanding, frame shuddering sighs as his eyes brim with honest to god tears. It takes John completely by surprise and for a moment he wonders if trying to get Scott to talk is the best idea anymore.

"S-something's happening," Scott lets out slowly, fatigue and stress coaxing the thick words out of him and making the teen look younger than ever. "Things are falling apart and I don't know how to fix them." Scott's eyes fall to the hands he has resting in his lap and a single tear releases from his lashes to roll down his cheek. It cuts a haphazard path down his olive skin that glistens in the daylight making its way in through the room's only window. The father in John wants nothing more than to go over to the boy and pull him into a hug, but he makes himself stay seated.

"Scott, please just tell me what's going on." The teen doesn't look back over at him. Instead, he lets his glassy eyes linger over Stiles' still form.

"I should have been there with him…"

"This not your fault, son," John interrupts him almost immediately, finally understanding what's going on here. "Scott, you are not responsible for what happened to Stiles!" John truly believes the words and he tries to catch the teen's eyes again to tell him as much, but Scott resolutely refuses to look back up.

"You just don't get it. None of you get it," he mutters ruefully, lips curling into something that almost looks like a sneer. "I could have stopped this. I _should_ have stopped this… and now look at him." Scott gestures towards Stiles, emotion clogging his throat again. "I put him here. I'm the reason he's para..."

"Stop!" John forces in, lifting a finger and pointing it at Scott. "You just stop it right there, kid." Scott swipes a sleeve over damp cheeks and drags in a shuddering breath that shakes his entire frame again. "None of this is your fault. You didn't make Stiles go to the clinic that night!" He's amazed they're even having this conversation. Scott has always been the down to earth one.

"But I did!" The teen thunders at him unexpectedly, darting slightly smoldering eyes back towards John. The flash of red is barely perceptible, but it's there. "We needed to know what was happening to the bodies and he suggested a stake out to find out who might be behind it. I told him to go! He was there because of me!"

Scott's outburst is so out of character that John sits in stunned silence for a moment, unsure of how to respond. These kids keep getting themselves into impossible situations and he doesn't know how to help them. This is too much even for mere mortals, let alone kids not even old enough to order a beer yet.

"Scott, you know as well as I do that Stiles doesn't listen to anyone. If he got it into his head to stake out that clinic than nothing you could have said or done would have changed his mind."

"I could have ordered him," Scott volleys back a little insolently and John can't stop the snort that catches at the back of his throat.

"Yeah sure, sport. Whatever you say." Scott narrows his eyes but John keeps going. "Look, you had no way of knowing what was going to happen, Scott! I don't blame you for any of it and he certainly wont when he finally comes out of this."

That seems to get Scott's attention and his eyes soften. "Even if he…"

John knows where he's going with this. "Even then," he promises softly and for a moment, Scott almost seems to believe it.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Slightest mention of a possible Mama McCall / Papa Bear Stilinski relationship in this chapter, but blink and you just might miss it._

* * *

When a week goes by and Stiles' condition doesn't improve, John sinks so low that he begins to contemplate something pretty unfathomable. The teen hasn't come straight out and offered it yet, but John has a feeling Scott has been trying to figure out a way to broach the subject for a while now. Probably ever since that first night in the waiting room when he found out about how this all could end for his best friend.

Stiles' respiratory therapists have been trying to reduce his dependency on that damn vent, but they're just not getting the results they had hoped for. From what John has been able to glean from the doctors and his own late night Google searches, a week seems to be the standard unit of measure to tell if a person who's been paralyzed is going to recover any function. Well they've reached that proverbial line in the sand and Stiles still isn't showing any signs of improvement. His neck has had a week to heal and still he lingers on in some kind of limbo. They all do, really, and it's enough to set any father to thinking about that one crazy thing that might make all of this all right again.

He gets his chance to ask one rainy Saturday afternoon after Lydia leaves to go in search of something to eat. Things have been a little awkward between John and Scott ever since their conversation the other day. He suspects its because they're each still trying to digest what the other one had to say. John still doesn't blame Scott for any of this, despite the teen's best efforts at convincing him to the contrary, but the kid is so desperate to try and make things right again that there's no doubt in John's mind that he'll do exactly what he wants. There's no doubt in his mind that, were he to ask the agitated alpha sitting before him, picking at some invisible spot on his jeans, that the kid would agree to give Stiles the bite and end this nightmare once and for all.

There are only two things that are keeping John from just blurting out the request like he's ordering takeout. Two things that make him pause and really think about what it is he's about to ask of Scott. Firstly, he's not entirely sure that being a werewolf is something that Stiles would ever be interested in. And second, there's still a chance that his boy could pull through all this and be perfectly fine. The longer his condition goes without changing, the more remote that possibility becomes, but it's still there and John can't just ignore it. He can't deny his only son the chance to decide his own fate, so John makes one of the hardest decisions of his life, and doesn't do it. God help him, he decides to wait, and sits in the quiet of Stiles' room long after trying to decide if he's just made the biggest mistake of his life.

It takes two more days, but John eventually does get his answer. It comes with a visit from Melissa who's been such a source of strength for John through all of this that he's kind of started looking forward to her visits. She breezes in about five minutes after John arrives in Stiles room after a much needed night at home sleeping in his own bed with a huge smile stretched across her pretty face. It's infectious and John can't help but return it with a small one of his own as he throws his jacket over the back of his usual chair.

"What are you smiling about?" He asks and the grin only gets wider.

"I have some good news for you." Melissa knows him well enough to know that she should never, ever screw around with him, especially when it comes to Stiles, so he can't help but let in a little hope.

"What is it? What's going on?"

Melissa steps around him and goes to stand at the edge of Stiles' bed, resting her hands lightly on the bars. "He made some really good progress this morning with the respiratory therapist," she beams but John's not sure what she's getting at. "He started breathing on his own, John."

For a moment it's John who can't breathe. "Really?" She nods. "So what does that mean?" He has half a mind to pull Melissa into his arms and whirl her around the room, but he doesn't do it. He's been at this job for far too long to just assume that this means everything is going to be okay.

"It's nothing definitive, but it's a good sign. Next step will be to reduce his sedation and try and wean him off the ventilator completely." John remembers this procedure from his internet searches and nods absently.

"But he could still be paralyzed." It's meant to be a question, but comes out as more of a statement.

Melissa's face falls a little but she doesn't lose her smile entirely. "It's a possibility, but they won't know for sure until they wake him up and find out from him directly."

It isn't the resolution he was hoping for, but it's something and John scoops one of Stiles' clammy hands up into his own. It's still hot from a fever he's developed over the past few days, but it's warm and alive in his grasp and John will take that any day over the alternative.

"When's he going to wake up?"

"After the shift change they'll get started," Melissa explains. "I'm off in an hour so I'll come by and stay with you today. If you want." She adds the last part like an afterthought, but John isn't about to say no.

"I'd like that, thank you Melissa," he smiles a little shyly, unwanted color rising in his cheeks. God damn it. What is he, 12 years old? He clears his throat when she notices a moment later and just barges on. "Have you told Scott about what happened?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Sheriff," she smiles a little curtly, leaning into his space, "I don't share _everything_ about my patients' conditions with my son."

"Come on, you know that's not what I mean," John sputters stupidly. "I figured you tell him everything." Her eyebrows shoot up. "No, that came out wrong." _Oh hell._ "Look, what I'm trying to say is, that kid's practically family, so I wouldn't take offence if you wanted to keep him in the loop." He ends on a huff and Melissa actually starts to laugh at him. Her eyes crinkle around the edges when she does it and John runs a hand over his face in embarrassment.

"I have to call him about something else anyways," Melissa replies, amusement still coloring her voice. It's nice that things like laughter are starting to trickle back into John's life again, even if it is at his own expense. "I'll let him know so he can pass it along to rest of the pack."

John nods and Melissa leaves to go and finish up the rest of her shift. John's body is beyond exhausted, even after last night's sleep in his own bed, but he doesn't sit down in his chair like his tired limbs want. He stands instead at the edge of Stiles' bed, his kid's warm hand pressed tightly between both of his, and runs through all the things that are possible this morning that weren't yesterday.

Stiles is breathing on his own and that's caused John to hope. If his boy can pull that off then maybe, just maybe he can defy it all and make a full recovery. Maybe John will come in to tomorrow and find that Stiles can move arms and legs and even the hand that John holds between his own so tightly that his fingers are beginning to ache.

"You got this, kid," John whispers out, bringing the warmth of Stiles' hand up to the side of his face. "No matter what happens, I'll get you through this. Even if nothing is ever the same again, we'll make it, okay? Just keep fighting and come back."

There's no visible change, there never is when John talks to him like this, but there's no denying the atmosphere in the normally heavy room has altered somehow. Instead of the oppressive silence, the air feels lighter and freer and for a moment, John can imagine glancing down at his boy's face to find his eyes open and Stiles smiling up at him. It doesn't happen, of course. Stiles is still intubated and hasn't regained consciousness since this whole thing started. It's been over a week since those titanic, wheat field colored eyes of his have been open or since John's heard his voice, but the hope that he might some day soon is enough to chase all the fear and doubt away.

"Come on, kiddo," he entreats one final time before pressing a light kiss into Stiles' palm in a way he hasn't done since the kid was a toddler, "let's show 'em all there's no keeping down a Stilinski."

* * *

 _A/N: Don't forget to leave a review and let me know if you're liking this or not :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Two chapters in one day; I'm on a roll!_

 _A warning for some possible disturbing imagery in this chapter having to do with burns and wound tending. If that's something that bothers you, this chapter might not be for you._

* * *

Even though the burns on Stiles' extremities aren't as terrible as they could have been, watching the nursing staff change the bandages is still one of the hardest things he's had to endure thus far. They file in twice a day, a grim little band on loan from the burn unit a few floors below, and always ask him if he wants to step out before they start in on their work. Every day they ask him and every day it's a struggle for John to say that he'll stay. He can tell by the looks they give him that they wouldn't judge him if he decides to flee, but if Stiles is going to be expected to endure this torture once he wakes up, then the least John can do is man up and stay by his son's side through the worst of it. So he never does take them up on their offer but stays instead to watch as they carefully unwrap the burns and set into their work.

The skin they uncover is red and raw and still moist from the gunk they spread over the burns at each redressing to try and combat infection. Sometimes the affected areas bleed and sometimes bits of Stiles' skin slough away with the gauze and it's nearly unbearable to watch. He's learned the hard way never to eat before a dressing change and is reminded of why a few minutes later when his stomach gives an almighty lurch that nearly sends him sprinting towards the bathroom. Stiles' injuries aren't even that bad, so John can't even begin to fathom what it must be like for burn victims who have to endure so much more than this.

When John first arrived on scene at the clinic that night he'd half expected the burn unit to be the place Stiles would end up if he somehow survived everything. The raging inferno that had engulfed his son's jeep was so intense that it's a miracle they're not down in that unit right now, dealing with something more terrible than just the possible partial paralysis from a neck injury. That realization is enough to set John to wondering if perhaps his pleas to the universe that night really had been heard and answered.

When the nurses begin uncovering a particularly nasty burn to the side of Stiles' leg, John sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and has to look away on a wince. Melissa, who has been helping the nurses, abandons her post and slips a gloved hand into his, squeezing lightly. The entire procedure is tortuous; a nearly unbearable thing to watch, and it's only a matter of time before Stiles wakes up and has to endure it himself.

Just like Melissa promised, the docs have already begun to slowly reduce Stiles' sedation to wake him up and get him off that damn vent for good, but John almost doesn't want them to do it. He wants nothing more in this world than to see his son's eyes open again and to hear his voice, but not if it means those eyes will be creased in pain or that his voice will be bent around a scream when the bandages come off. Stiles in pain is not something John has ever been particularly able to handle.

"John," Melissa whispers at his side, her warmth the only thing anchoring him in place at the moment, "they're finished now." John nods and collapses back into his usual chair as the staff gathers up their equipment and leaves. It's mid-morning and for once the blinds covering the room's only window are open. Sunlight streams in through the blades and casts pattered shadows over the blankets covering Stiles' lower half. The light is warm and John closes his eyes and turns his face towards it as the room slowly settles back down.

"When's the last time you ate?" Melissa asks him when his stomach gives a grumble, but it's just because it's still unsettled from earlier.

He keeps his eyes closed and his face turned toward the warm light when he answers. "I'm fine."

"John…" her voice has an edge of warning to it so he smiles at her when he finally opens his eyes.

"Seriously, Melissa. I'm ok."

She looks anything but convinced. "You're no good to him half dead. He's going to need you, especially if he wakes up and…"

"Yeah, I know," he interrupts a little shortly and pinches the bridge of his nose trying to chase away the headache developing right behind his eyes. "I'm well aware of what might happen once he wakes up. I just wish he would do it already."

Melissa glances back over at Stiles. "There's no exact science to this. He'll come out of it when he's good and ready." John thinks back on the dressing change and nods absently. It's a good thing Stiles is still out of it as far as he's concerned.

"Hey, I've noticed the kids haven't been around much in the past few days. Everything okay?" He asks, eager for a change in subject. The more he thinks about what could happen to Stiles in the coming days, the more that headache of his builds up steam behind his eye sockets.

"They're… okay," Melissa replies cautiously and John waits for her to go on, unwilling to give her the out she's so obviously fishing for.

"Parish said the same thing and quite frankly, I don't believe either of you." He expects her to glare over at him but she only shifts in her seat, looking anywhere but in his direction. Melissa is dressed in pink scrubs today and picks at a piece of dark fuzz stuck to one of her pant legs. "Come on, what's with everyone lately? Why wont anyone just tell me what the hell's going on?"

"Because it's being taken care of," she responds icily and John looses it.

"My kid might have just given up any semblance of a normal life to help with those damn Dread Doctors and now you guys are trying to cut us out? I think I deserve to know what the fuck's going on here, Melissa!"

She does look over at him this time, eyes flashing in anger. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we're just trying to help you?"

"Help me?" He snorts derisively.

"Yeah, help you," she fires back. "John, your son is in the hospital! No one wants you to have to deal with anything more than you already are. That's why they're 'cutting you out' as you so judiciously put it."

"Oh please! I don't need protection…" John starts, but Melissa interrupts him before he can finish.

"No, you don't, but he does!" She points an angry finger over at Stiles. "Scott and the pack feel responsible for what's happened to him, John! They're doing everything they can to try and make up for it by keeping him safe and if that means keeping you in the dark about certain things, then so be it!"

John opens his mouth to argue the flawed logic behind that one, but an unexpected movement caught at the corner of his eye stops him. He's up and out of his seat in a flash - Melissa right behind him - and wraps one of Stiles' wandering hands in his own.

"Stiles?" He whispers, hardly able to believe what he's seeing. "Oh my god, son. Can you hear me?" There's erratic movement beneath his eyelids like Stiles is trying to come round and John threads the fingers of his free hand through the hair lying limply against Stiles' forehead.

"Stiles, baby, it's dad. Can you open your eyes for me, son?" The hand he has pressed to his chest jerks a little in his grip and it's the sweetest thing John's ever felt. "That's right kiddo," he coaxes with shining eyes, leaning over so that if Stiles is able to come round, John will be the first thing that he sees, "that's it, boy. Open your eyes."

John can feel Melissa standing just behind him and the anticipation in the room is so great, it's almost too much to bear. He wills those honeysuckle eyes to open; those same brown eyes that look just like his mother's. The ones nearly too large for his still boyish face, and holds his breath as he prays. And when they eventually flutter open, John lets his head fall forward on a choked sob of utter relief when he's finally able to look into the eyes of his son.

"Shit Stiles," he gasps and the teen's bleary eyes light up with recognition. He seems sluggish. It takes him a second or two to process anything, but there's no question he recognizes John. There's also no question of the exact moment when Stiles realizes he can barely move and that there's a tube shoved down his throat.

"Don't do that, son," John sooths quietly, grabbing for the hand about to paw at the ventilator tubing. "You were in an accident, Stiles. The jeep flipped and they had to put you on a respirator. You're going to be okay, but you can't pull at the tube, okay?" Stiles looks terrified, even through a heavy haze of grogginess, and John looks over to Melissa for help as the heart monitor goes haywire. But the nurse is already gone, presumably off to let Stiles' doctor know that he's finally awake.

Ok, he can handle this.

"No, no, no, you're okay, kiddo," he promises when Stiles' eyes fill with confused tears that plead silently with John just to fix it all. "I swear to god kid, you're going to be fine, but you gotta calm down!"

Stiles does try to comply, he really does, but the fear never quite leaves his eyes and only seems to intensify as his room begins to fill with people he doesn't know.

"You're going to be fine, Stiles," John calls out again, even as he's pulled away from the bed, and prays that what he's just told his son is true.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: I'm terribly sorry you guys! You would't believe how much trouble I had with this chapter. I had some pretty terrible writer's block and rewrote it about a dozen times then finally just woke up super early this morning and punched it out (go figure!). Anywho, a chapter or two to go and then we're done. I hope you enjoy!_

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In the early hours before dawn, John sits under the dim glow of the overhead lights in Stiles' room and waits for something to happen. It's arduous business, this waiting. It's a grueling, torturous process that only manages to frustrate the hell out of him and intensify the headache slowly building up steam in the spaces behind his eyes. He digs at them with calloused palms, but nothing works so he tries his best to ignore it all and goes back to watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest under the sheets.

Now that Stiles is off the ventilator there's nothing mechanical about that movement now. In fact, his breath seems hitch at times and Stiles will have to pull in these ragged, shuddering breaths that sputter John's heart to a stop in his chest every time that they happen. And it doesn't kick back into a regular rhythm again until Stiles settles into one of his own, beading the inside of his oxygen mask with condensation on even, regular breaths.

John pushes out of the chair he's been occupying all night and moves over to stare out the window with tired eyes. Beyond the four walls of the hospital, a new day is dawning. The sun peaks over the far horizon, wrapping its arms around the tall, purple peaks of the Cathedral Mountains, which sit shimmering in the pale morning light. John has spent so much time in this hospital room worrying over Stiles he's forgotten that quiet mornings like this can still exist, that the world still comes alive each morning and that it's beautiful and peaceful to watch. He's forgotten all of it and takes a moment to just stand there and take it all in.

After the night he's had, it's nice to focus on something else for a while. While Stiles has managed to resurface a few times since coming of the vent, John is still anxiously waiting for that one time his boy is able to wake up completely and actually talk to him. It hasn't happened yet (hence the waiting), his moments of consciousness short lived with never enough time to do much else but look around with bleary eyes and unfocused gaze before passing back out again. John has been trying very hard to be patient with the whole process, but it's difficult… _Arduous_ even.

Pulling his eyes away from the serene light of the dawning morn, John glances over at Melissa who's sleeping soundly in a chair on the other side of the bed. The overworked nurse has been with him all night, holding his hand through the extubation when they finally removed that damn tube from Stiles' throat; talking him through the worst of the panic when his boy struggled for breath afterwards. She even stayed with him through the long, endless hours when all he did was sit, unmoving, just staring at his son and watching for any sign that he'd regained movement in his legs. The doctors still say it's too soon to tell, but that didn't save John from another sleepless night of waiting around to see for himself. Melissa was only able to fall asleep herself a few hours ago so John reaches a hand out to draw the blinds, blocking out the gathering light of the sunrise so it won't disturb her. The woman has been such a godsend to him that he doesn't mind the loss of the light.

Now wanting to sit back down just yet, John lets out a weary breath and runs a hand through his unkempt hair, pausing at the base of his neck to kneed at the tense muscles there with a palm. Even though the blinds are drawn, morning light still manages to make its way into the room and it's a peaceful kind of light… like the world is peaking in to see if Stiles is okay and trying to offer a bit of it's own kind of comfort.

And maybe it works a little.

Now that Stiles is off the vent, there aren't quite as many machines crowding the room and everything feels just a little bit lighter. John knows this openness won't last for long; that the liberated space will soon be filled with the visitors who will inevitably come once news of Stiles reemergence spreads. But for now it's just him and Melissa. It's Saturday already so the kids will start arriving soon and begin their normal schedule of one person keeping watch over Stiles while the rest are off off doing god knows what. John still hasn't seen any sign of Liam or Kira, but he's pretty much given up on trying to get answers from everyone on where they might be. Melissa wants him to trust that things are being handled. Well, John's a cop and trust is not a word in his vocabulary, so while he's begrudgingly agreed not to press anymore, it still bothers him that half the pack is AWOL.

And speaking of trust, there's something that's been bothering John ever since Stiles' surgery and he spends the next few minutes studying his son's face from his place by the window and wondering how he'll eventually broach the subject with the kid. He supposes he could just throw it in there along with the news of the hardships ahead of him should his spine not heal completely, but he can't help but wonder if it's a sign that more is going on with Stiles than John could ever know.

A little while after the surgery and after Stiles had been settled into his room, the other trauma surgeon, a Dr. Bruah, had come by to ask John a few questions about a strange wound they'd found on Stiles shoulder. It was deep, he'd explained, and older than the other injuries he'd suffered when the jeep flipped. It looked like the kid was been trying (albeit unsuccessfully, as it was well on its way to infection) to take care of it on his own, only John didn't have any answers for the doc. He had no idea what the wound was from, and no idea why his son would keep such a thing from him.

It's a sign, he figures. A sign that secrets are making them strangers, and he's not sure how to reverse course and get them back on the path they used to be on. The one where his son would come to him with the bad things, and not try to hide it to the point it was detrimental to his health. He also can't help but wonder if the wound on his shoulder has something to do with his jeep being attacked and flipped upside down.

John sighs heavily, forgetting for a moment that he's not completely alone, and when he glances over at Melissa a moment later to make sure he hasn't woken her, she's looking over at him with sleep soft eyes.

"What time is it?" She asks a little groggily and John glances down at his watch.

"A little after 5."

"Did you manage to get any sleep?" She stretches her arms high up over her head and stifles a yawn.

"Couldn't," he admits, looking away before he starts to yawn, too. "Every time I closed my eyes I kept thinking I could hear him starting to move or calling out for me. I couldn't turn it off... Stupid, right?"

"Hardly," Melissa smiles. "I'd have done the same thing in your shoes." He tries to return the smile but knows it's going to look forced. "Hey, you're allowed to go a little nuts during this, John," She goes on. "This _is_ Stiles we're talking about."

John chuckles a little at that but the mirth doesn't last long and he goes serious again. "I just wish he'd wake up long enough so we can know for sure how he's doing, you know? This waiting around bullshit is driving me crazy."

"I know," she responds sympathetically. "Maybe he'll stay awake long enough today for the doctors to finally assess him."

"God I hope so," John sighs. He slips back into his chair and something occurs to him. "You know Melissa," he begins tentatively, "you don't have to stick around with me all day again today. If you have things you need to do…" She's already done so much for him John figures the least he can do is offer the woman an out if she needs it.

"There's no where in the world I'd rather be right now, John," she replies before he can even finish and he swallows thickly.

"Not even with Scott?"

"Oh I'm not worried about, Scott," she winks. "In fact, I think he would be pretty pissed at me if I didn't stay today."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what he and the other kids have been up to this past week, will you?" He tries but Melissa's still playing it close to the cuff.

"School?" She offers up sheepishly and John shakes his head at her feeble attempt at pacifying him. She's partly right, he figures. John knows for a fact that at least Malia and Lydia are still attending school and the mounds of homework slowly taking over the room's only table can attest to that. They've been bringing Stiles' assignments by the hospital every day when they visit so the kid will have something to do when he finally comes around and they litter the table in tall, haphazard piles.

"Whatever you say," John sighs again, admitting defeat. "But thanks for stickin' around."

"No problem," Melissa replies like she really means it before heaving herself out of the chair to give her cramped muscles a proper stretch. "I could use some coffee," she announces a moment later when she's done. "Could you use some coffee?"

Her smile is almost infectious. "I could use some coffee."

"Alright then. I'm going to get us some coffee." She breezes out of the room without another word and John watches her disappear out the door.

For the first time in days John is finally alone with his son, and as that realization slowly sinks in, he finds that he's kind of glad for it. He understands that Scott and the rest of the pack are taking all of this pretty hard. He understands that all they want to do is be near their friend and to protect him, but it's difficult for John having them here sometimes. This thing that's happening to his son, it's real and it's serious and it's tearing him apart from the inside… only he hasn't been able to really deal with any of it yet. He can't break down or get angry when they're around. Can't rage or scream or put his fist through a wall... He's gotta stay strong for the kids...

But he's _tired_.

Christ almighty, John's wearier than he's ever been in his life, trying to hold it all in, and it's gotten so bad that his body doesn't even feel like his own anymore. He's detached from it, though he still manages to feel all it's aches as it trudges through its processes like it's nearing the end of its shelf life and is ready to quit on him altogether; only John can't afford to quit. When Stiles finally escapes from whatever limbo he's trapped in… if his son looks down at his legs and realizes his bottom half won't move like it should, then John is going to have to be there for his son. He's going to need to be the foundation on which Stiles' rebuilds his life, but John can't do that half covered in cracks that snake out from his center like tiny little fissures, threatening the structural integrity of his very soul. He's no good to his son like this and he's trying desperately to pull himself together and fill back in the holes.

Knowing that at any moment Melissa could return with the coffee or that Scott, Lydia or Malia could show up to visit, John gets up from his chair and walks back over to the window. The emotions he's spent the better part of a week trying to keep under control are threatening to explode and his hands shake with the strain of trying to contain it. Desperate for a distraction he throws open the blinds again and the California sky is cloudless outside the window. He stands for unknowable moments just searching its azure depths for some sign that all of this will all be okay, that this terrible thing that has happened to his boy really isn't as bad as he imagines.

But John doesn't find his answers written across that pristine sky, though he certainly spends enough time looking. So long in fact, he nearly misses it when something speaks behind him.

D-Dad?" He freezes, all the air punched out of him in an instant as time stands still. The word is muffled by the mask and pushed past cracked lips on barely enough breath to make it anything more than a whisper, but it's there and enough to rip John in two.

"I'm here, Stiles," he chokes, racing back over to the bed. He cups one side of his son's fever warm face with a hand and guides the meandering gaze over to where he sits. "I'm right here, Son."

Stiles' eyelids are heavy and cumbersome, like he might not be able to hold them open for long. Yet despite this tenuous hold on consciousness, Stiles still manages to smile up weakly at John.

"Shit kid," he half sobs when that unfocused gaze finally settles on him and John can tell that his son's really there with him, "took you long enough."

Stiles' eyes have always been the color of wheat fields after a warm summer rain and John hasn't realized how much he's missed them until he's finally looking into them again. He collapses back into his seat and drinks in the moment.

There are dark times in his life that John will never forget. That night on the rooftop of the hospital is one, when he had to hold back his hysterical wife to keep her from attacking their eight-year-old son. So is that rainy Sunday afternoon in June when he finally buried her in the ground. There's that time Stiles went missing for two whole days after some psychopath with a grudge decided the Sheriff of Beacon Hills needed to be taught a lesson and they're all the things his nightmares are made of. Yet, for every terrible, horrible moment that won't let him be, there are a dozen or so bright, shiny ones just waiting in the wings, ready to come to his rescue when the darkness threatens. They're luminous and numerous and this moment is quickly making its way up with the best of them.

"S'wrong Daddy-o?" Stiles wheezes out, lungs weak and voice still hoarse from the intubation. He somehow manages to lift a trembling hand from the bed, bandages and all, to touch at the moisture that has begun to track down the sides of John's face unchecked.

Nothin' kid," he snifs, capturing that meandering hand in his own and pressing its warmth into the side of his face. "Nothing's wrong now that you're back."

"I go somewhere?"

"You could say that."

Stiles' skin is so warm and John knows it's because of the fever he's running, but he still finds the warmth reassuring. It means Stiles' is alive, that blood pumps through his veins and his body is working hard to heal itself. It means he's pulled through.

"Are you in any pain? Do you need anything?"

Stiles has to think about it for a moment. "Thirsty," he finally croaks and John chastises himself for being so dumb. Of course the kid is thirsty.

"Ok, hold on a sec." He turns in his chair and rescues a pink plastic cup from amidst the piles of junk on the room's rolling table. He's been anticipating this moment so the cup is still semi-filled with ice. He chases down some of the bigger chips with a spoon and, once they've carefully pulled the oxygen mask away from Stiles' pale face, he carefully slips the ice past his son's parched lips. Stiles seems to savor it, closing his eyes and working his throat so that the soothing coolness runs down his abused skin slowly. It breaks John's heart a little to see and when Stiles asks for more, John gives it to him despite remembered warnings not to let him have too much, too fast.

"Do you remember what happened?" John asks as they run through the ritual a few more times.

Stiles goes internal for a moment like he's trying to wade through the memories and make sense of what he sees.

"I remember being in the jeep with Theo," he begins; voice a little stronger thanks to the ice. "Something attacked us. It pulled Theo out and then the next thing I knew, the jeep was flipping over." He pauses; drawing in a sharp breath like something hurts, but goes on. "I hit the ground, and then nothing."

John offers him another spoonful of ice, but Stiles lifts a heavy, bandaged hand and waves it off. He's starting to fade so John lets the spoon plop back into the melting water and sets the gaudy pink cup aside. He gently lowers the oxygen mask back down over Stiles' face and ignores the glare his son gives him when he does it.

"I don't need this thing," Stiles whines a little, even as he pulls greedily at the reestablished flow of oxygen. John ignores that, too.

"After your jeep flipped, can you remember anything else?"

"Nothing," Stiles admits a little heatedly from beneath the mask, but softening a moment later as he looks back over at John. "At least not until… I woke up and saw your ugly mug." He tries for a smile but the continued conversation and the way he has to concentrate on pulling in oxygen every few seconds is beginning to take its toll. Stiles eyes are little more than thin slivers rimmed in red and ready to close again but he surprises John a moment later with a question.

"D-dad," He stumbles a little, gripping at the mask, "what… h-happened to me?"

The question takes John by surprise and he lets his sightline drop to the hands he has resting in his lap. There's a part of him that wants to save this bit for later, but he's so afraid that if he waits, the news will come out some other way and scar his kid for life. Better for John to just do it himself and help Stiles to process and accept what's been done to him.

"When your jeep flipped, you got tossed around pretty well," John starts to explain and Stiles watches him closely from over the mask. "There was some swelling around your spine. You weren't breathing on your own so they had to put you on a respirator for a while."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles fingertips ghost up to his throat like he's remembering the feel of the tube there.

"Yeah, and it was pretty touch and go for a while there, too. They were worried that maybe you… well, they thought you might be…"

Fuck.

"Might be what, Dad?" Stiles rasps, looking uneasy.

But it's too damn hard. John pulls himself up from his seat, suddenly unable to just sit there and look into his son's anxious eyes. He turns his back on him, feeling like the worlds biggest failure.

"Dad!" Stiles pleads, ending on a wet, hacking cough, but John still can't make himself turn.

He's a coward. There's no other explanation for it. He's supposed to be the strong one, Stiles' foundation, and he's failing at it completely.

"Dad, please… just tell me what happened." Stiles voice is weak. He sounds so young that John half expects to find his eight-year-old son lying in the bed when he finally turns back around. But it's just Stiles, looking up at him with pleading, confused eyes and John knows in that moment that he can't put this off any longer. He sits down on bed, right beside Stiles' unmoving legs, and heaves a defeated sigh.

"The swelling in your back was really bad and they think that you might have done some damage to the nerves there," John explains, voice going soft. "They can't say anything for sure at this point. And actually there's a good chance they might not even be right, so you can't loose hope, okay?"

"Come on… D-Dad, you're s-scaring me."

John draws in a breath and steels himself. "You might be paralyzed, Stiles."

There.

It's out.

He's delivered his terrible news, and he tries to prepare himself for what's coming next: the panic attack or complete meltdown he can feel beginning to brew.

He waits for it, but it never comes, and Stiles surprises the shit out of him a moment later when he flat out refuses to believe what he's just been told.

"No I'm not," he announces, reaching for his oxygen mask like he's about to pull it off again. John stops him with a hand at his wrist.

"I know it's a lot to take in, but I'm being serious, Stiles."

Something like amusement flashes behind Stiles eyes. "Dad…"

"Stiles, I don't think you understand what I just told you, kid!" John exclaims, bewildered at his son's unexpected response. "The doctor's say there's a chance you may never walk again!"

But Stiles isn't getting it. John was right; the kid's too out of it, too medicated to deal with all this right now.

"Dad, relax," Stiles' hand chases after him when John launches off the bed, but he's not fast enough. "Everything's…" he has to pause to drag in another breath, "gonna be okay!"

"Okay?" John repeats, fear making his voice go high. "How is any of this supposed to be okay!?"

"Because they're wrong, Dad!" Stiles starts to cough from the strain of trying to talk over the mask and be understood and when he can't continue on with words, he lifts bandaged arms from the bed and hikes the blankets covering his lower half up and away from his feet with more strength than John would have thought him capable of. Stiles' feet are cocooned in a pair of those ubiquitous hospital slippers, the fuzzy kind with the painted on white treads. John looks back and forth between them and his son, completely at a loss over his son's strange behavior.

When he just continues to stare, Stiles rolls his eyes (actually rolls his eyes) and points down at his feet.

"Look!" The word uses up whatever remaining oxygen he has left and Stiles clutches at the mask, trying to draw it in closer. He's struggling and John should help him, but he's suddenly frozen in place, held captive by the impossible thing that's happening right before his eyes.

Stiles is wiggling his goddamn toes; would probably be moving the whole damn leg if he had the energy for it, and John chokes on something hysterical that tries to claw its way up the back of his throat.

"See," Stiles wheezes, collapsing in on himself as the last of his reserves are depleted. "I told you!" and John Stilinski starts to laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks again to everyone for the reviews, follows and faves. I honestly couldn't do this without you :) One more chapter after this then a prologue I think some people are going to adore. As a reminder, this story is un-beta'd and all mistakes are mine.

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 **Chapter 9**

"You're doing it again," an amused voice observes quietly from the bed and John straightens in his seat so fast the newspaper he's been pretending to read for the past few hours flutters to the ground near his feet.

"I was not," he defends himself dolefully, knowing full well he's been caught, and bends over to retrieve the paper from the floor to hide the fact that he's blushing. When he straightens back up, Stiles is smirking up at him from the bed. The kid is still two shades too pale, but he looks better than he has in days.

"Were too," He chuckles, scratching idly at the nasal cannula wound round his nose.

John feints indifference and makes a big deal of smoothing out one crumpled corner of a page. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hey, just because I almost died doesn't mean you get to turn into a creeper." There's a hint of something mischievous in his eyes, like Stiles is enjoying his father's embarrassment a little too much.

John pulls a face. "Whatever, kid. I just thought you were having a bad dream."

"Sure Dad," Stiles sniffs sarcastically. "A bad dream."

John narrows his eyes at his son, makes a big production of straightening his paper with an overdramatic flourish, and goes back to pretending to read.

Truth is, he _was_ staring again. Sometimes he just can't help it. After so many grueling, uncertain days of waiting around to see if his son would actually pull through, John figures he's at least earned the right to sit there and stare as his kid breathes. The whole damn feeling is surreal. It's like finding something again you hadn't even realized you'd lost and are all of a sudden rediscovering all the little things about it that made you love it in the first place. Not to mention dealing with the overwhelming realization of how truly fucked your life has been without this _thing_ in it. So he stares. When no one's looking (and sometimes even when they are) he keeps watch over the gentle rise and fall of his kid's chest. He keeps it up even when Stiles leans in close to try and get Malia to smile or falls into quiet conversation with Lydia. He doesn't even stop when Stiles' catches him again and again and laughs as he makes fun of him for it.

John peaks discretely around the edge of his paper and sees that the kid has quiet and still again. He's been doing that a lot lately and John thinks he knows why. It's definitely not because of his legs or the fact that it's still difficult for him to move his lower half. Actually, the fact that he's going to have his work cut out for him to get back to 100% doesn't even seem to faze the kid. He's staying surprisingly optimistic about all that, but what he's having a hard time dealing with is the fact that Scott, his best friend in all the world, hasn't been around for days. Malia, Lydia, Mason, they all make their regular visits, but not Scott. The alpha has been mysteriously MIA and John can't help but worry that something is wrong.

Every day Stiles gets a little bit stronger and every day the worry John felt for his son during those god-awful days begins to ebb away, only it's slowly being replaced by something else. It's nothing like that piercing, panicked worry from before, but more like a dull ache at the center of his chest he just can't seem to shake. Scott hasn't been by once since Stiles woke up; though John has this sneaky suspicion the alpha might have jimmied the window for an impromptu midnight visit. Still, he can tell by the way Stiles' eyes always pull towards the door or that slightest hint of disappointment they fill with when he realizes whoever's just come in is not the person he's been waiting for, that if Scott has been here, Stiles doesn't know it. No one walking in would ever know anything is wrong. Stiles still smiles and promises that the burns don't hurt that bad like a champ, but John knows his son. He knows him better than anyone else in the entire world, and he knows that his boy is hurting right now in a way morphine could never hope to help with. John's been half expecting Stiles to ask him why his best friend is not there. He hasn't yet, but John can tell that he wants to.

John's been a cop for a long. He's built a career on his powers of observation so he can tell Melissa knows the reason why Scott stays away. It's in the line of her jaw and the way she seems to avoid Stiles' room like the plague anymore. She's tense when he tries to talk to her, too and sometimes he just wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she spills all. He's never been a violent man, which he figures is a bit surprising for a cop, but the frustration at being kept in the dark during all of this makes him wonder if he could be. Lydia and Malia show signs that something is wrong as well. They do their best to keep Stiles in good spirits but he can tell by the way they constantly check their texts or slip out to make quiet yet hurried calls that they're in the middle of what ever is going on too. Even Parrish is avoiding him and he's heard whispers around the hospital of impossible things once again descending down on the sleepy town of Beacon Hills.

Even though John wants to be out there in the thick of it, helping to stop whatever's going on, he knows that his place is here right now. If his department needs him, they'll call. If Scott get in too far over his head, surely Melissa will finally break down and read him in. So for now, John has to be content with just sitting and staring at his kid's gentle breathing when he thinks that no one is looking.

And speaking of staring at his son, John's started it up again without even realizing and Stiles is laughing at him again lightly from the bed.

"You're impossible," his son smiles, voice cracking a little from the perpetual dryness of constant oxygen. He looks content for the moment so John sets his paper aside and turns to face the bed.

"Can I ask you something you might not want to answer?"

Stiles averts his eyes and picks at something crusty stuck to the front of his gown. "Am I gonna like it?"

"Probably not."

"So why ask?"

"Stiles…"

Stiles sighs and looks back up at him. "Fine. Fire away," he replies with his hands and John tries to think how best to ask this without upsetting his son or shutting him down completely.

"What happened here?" He asks quietly, lifting a hand and gesturing towards the white bandage peaking out from just behind Stiles' shoulder. His son's own hand shoots out to cover it and adjust the hospital gown so it's no longer visible.

"I hurt it when the jeep flipped," he tries to recover nonchalantly, but John knows better.

"It's older than your others and Dr. Bruah told me it was starting to get infected." Stiles goes back to picking at that spot on his gown again and refuses to look back over at John.

Stiles has always had this tell. When he's truly telling the truth he's forceful with his words, always engaging and maintaining eye contact until he's absolutely sure John believes him. This kid before him now, picking at his gown with a blunt nail, is nothing like that other version of Stiles and it sets John's heart to aching a bit. He really is loosing his son, isn't he? It's not something that's happening all at once either, but rather bit by bit and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Stiles…"

"Can we please just not do this right now?" His son pleads. Stile' eyes have gone misty with moisture and when he finally looks back up and over at John, a single tear releases then rolls. _"Please?"_

John's own eyes narrow and he knows that he shouldn't give in, but his son is still so weak that he can't help but cave. "Alright son," he replies, sitting forward when more tears begin to crest and tack their way down Stiles' face. "Okay, we'll deal with it later. It's okay kiddo."

For the first time since all this began, John leans forward and pulls his son into an almost desperate embrace. He ignores bandages and wires and the tubes of the IV lines just to pull his boy close in his arms. Stiles shakes slightly against him but it isn't because he doesn't want the contact; quite the contrary in fact. He wraps his trembling arms so tightly around John it nearly hurts, and they spend long moments just holding on to each other, John rocking them slightly as Stiles dampens the side of his neck and shirt collar with tears.

"It's gonna be okay, Stiles" he sooths, pressing a kiss to the crown of his kid's head and running his fingers lightly against Stiles' scalp like he used to when he was just a kid. "Everything's going to be okay, I swear to god. I'm gonna get us through this. No matter what, I'm not going anywhere."

He's not just talking about the burns on Stiles' arms or the legs that don't quite move in the way they should just yet, but about everything that has been going on: Liam and Kira's sudden disappearances, Scott's absence from the hospital, everything going on with the Dread Doctors and the people dying in Beacon Hills. All of it. John's going to get them through all of it; even if it kills him.

When Stiles finally stills in his arms and sags against his chest like he's no longer able to hold himself up any longer, John eases his son's frail form back onto the bed. The tears have left his reddened cheeks wet and John swipes away some of the moisture with the pad of a thumb before collapsing back in his seat. Stiles looks completely drained, like he might not be able to stay awake for much longer, so John pushes out what he still has to say as quickly as he can.

It isn't much. Just a soft, "I love you, Stiles," murmured low as he watches his son struggle to stay awake.

John doesn't know what's going to happen tomorrow, if he'll wake up one day and find that his son has become a stranger. He doesn't know if they'll even come out of this gathering darkness alive, but for now his little family is safe and that's more than John could have ever hoped for.

"I love you, kid," he repeats as Stiles finally looses his battle with sleep.

"More than you'll ever know."

* * *

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Think I should keep my day job? Whatever your feelings, why don't you take a minute to let me know in a review! There's nothing we authors crave more than feedback.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: So, I was going to wrap things up after that last chapter but a few of you have commented about wanting to have a scene where the news about Donovan finally comes out. I never had it planned, but I've decided to alter my original ending and keep going with this. You'll have to be patient with me as I'm adding whole chapters I didn't have planned but will try and update as soon as possible. :) I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

It takes Scott another day to show up at the hospital and when he finally does John, Malia and Lydia are gathered around a Monopoly board spread out over the cleared off rolling table. Stiles, drained from a recent bandage change on his burns and unable to join them, lies in the bed watching them play, offering random bits of humorous commentary about the game that makes John chuckle every time he does it.

The view outside the window today is gloomy. Steely grey storm clouds have rolled in from the south to settle over Beacon Hills and blanket the town in a heavy, relentless rain that's been beating against the glass of the window all morning. Inside the room it's cozy and quiet so when the door to the room bangs open unexpectedly and hits the wall behind it with an echoing thud, it manages to startle every single one of them. John instinctively reaches for the sidearm that isn't there at his hip, but relaxes a moment later when he realizes who it is. Looming in the doorway, dripping rainwater down onto the tile floor, is Scott McCall.

"You're awake," the teen stammers like he's hardly able to believe it and stumbles forward into the room with a hand slightly outstretched like touching Stiles is the only way he's going to convince himself that his friend is really there. Everyone in the room goes silent and John watches his son's face go as stormy as the weather outside at the sight of Scott.

McCall stops in the middle of the room, suddenly aware of the intense scrutiny he's now under, and drops the hand to his side.

"Stiles…"

"Where were you?"

"I wanted to be here, you gotta believe me, Stiles, but I had to…" but Scott doesn't go on. He pauses and flicks his dark eyes over to John. Whatever the teen was going to say, it's obviously not something he feels he can say in front of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills (or Stiles' dad, John can't tell which) and looks suddenly uncomfortable.

"I couldn't get away," Scott pushes on, "a lot happened while you were in here."

"They managed to show up." Stiles inclines his head towards Malia and Lydia who are watching everything unfold from their chairs with wide, uncertain eyes. Malia opens her mouth to say something but Lydia delivers a quick smack to the side of the girl's arm and she stays silent.

"Please don't get mad at me, dude," Scott pleads, making his way further into the room until he's standing beside Stiles' bed. "I swear to god I would have been here if I could have."

John watches Stiles study his friend for a moment like he's waiting for a better explanation than that, but Scott just stays quiet and glances pointedly over at John. Everyone looking over at him, actually and he thinks he finally gets it. Scott's been kept away because of what's going on in the town and is apparently still unwilling to let John in on it.

He sighs, ready to defend himself, but Stiles unexpectedly does it for him.

"Dude, it's just my dad," the kid chastises everyone lightly. "Why all the sudden secrecy?"

Why indeed. John would like the answer to that question, too, but Scott just stands there beside the bed toeing at something unseen on the floor near his feet looking uncertain.

"Look guys, I already know something big is going down," John addresses the group, none of whom meet his eyes besides his son. "I took a leave of absence from the force to be here for Stiles until he's back on his feet so I'm not the Sheriff right now. You can trust me with whatever it is that's going on. I know it's bad and I know it has something to do with the Chimera and those Dread Doctors, but I can't help you guys if you keep me in the dark! And you could use all the help you can get, Scott," he pushes, looking back over at the teen. "So until I go back to active duty, just consider me another ally and let me help!"

For a few minutes the room descends into a tense, uneasy silence. He can see Scott processing what he's just said, uneven jaw working as he tries to decide what to do.

"I was trying to find Liam," the teen finally admits and Stiles straightens in the bed.

"He's missing?" John asks.

Scott nods. "Yeah, we lost him and Hayden that night at the high school. I had a lead on where they might be and Theo, Mason and I have been trying to find them for the past two days."

"Did you?" It's Lydia who asks and John has a sudden sense that this continuance of the conversation means he's in. Finally.

"Yeah, they're safe now, but…" Scott glances over at John again.

He puts his hands up in surrender, "Civilian, remember?"

The kid sighs. "They arrested Kira tonight."

"What?!" A chorus of voices rise up, John's included. Parrish was supposed to call him if anything big happened! He pulls his phone out, the phone he forgot he put on silent last night when Stiles dreams were plagued by nightmare and he was up half the night with his distraught son, and sees a dozen or so missed calls.

Shit.

"They think she killed someone."

Scott suddenly looks like he's about to keel over so John pulls his own chair over for the kid to collapse into. He takes it with a small wince of thanks and then starts in on his weeklong tale of kidnappings, murders and Dread Doctor mayhem. Everyone listens with various degrees of shock painted across their faces, but John only has eyes for Stiles. The kid's been through so much already that John worries this will be too much for him. He's gone pale again and John leans back against the concrete block wall behind him and keeps an eye on his son as Scott takes them through the events of the past week.

"So what, that's what, three chimaera dead now?" Stiles asks quietly from the bed and Scott looks over at him sharply.

"Four." John watches Stiles' brow furrow in confusion for a moment and then something seems to spark between the two boys in an instant that takes John completely by surprise. It's not something he would ever have expected to see between his boy and his best friend in the world and John watches what little color there is drain from Stiles' face.

"Donovan's dead, too," Scott finishes darkly and Stiles' eyes go wide in horror at the mention of that name. The heart monitor they've still got him hooked up to goes haywire and he's desperately trying to pull in enough oxygen to keep his breathing steady. John can see he's headed straight for a panic attack and is at his son's side in an instant.

"Stiles?!" He calls, but his son's eyes have rolled up into his head. The panic attack mixed with his already weakened lungs have begun turning his lips blue. Without thinking John rounds on Scott and grabs the poor kid by the shoulders.

"What did you do, Scott?" He demands, all thought of being the calm, professional cop he is going out the window as his son disintegrates into a full-blown panic attack beside them. "Why's he reacting like this?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stilinski!" Scott pleads as the nurses begin rushing in, summoned by the alarms and the shouts coming from within the room. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I swear!"

"Just what the hell's going on here, Scott!?"

"I-I can't tell you," the teen stammers, reaching his own arms up to break the hold John still has on his shoulders. "You're going to have to ask him!" He points towards Stiles who's lost in a sea of multi-colored scrubs.

"No, i'm asking you, Scott!" John snaps back, refusing to look away. "Why the hell did he react like that to Donovan's name?"

"I honestly can't tell you, Sheriff!"

"Then get out, Scott," John practically growls and the teen's eyes go wide with surprise. "Seriously, if you wont tell me what the fuck is going on, then I want all of you out of here now!"

He's reached the end of his rope, the alarms and the worried murmurings of the nurses surrounding his son making him completely irrational. The teen wisely doesn't say another word, just lets his head fall in something that looks a little like shame before flicking his eyes over to Malia and Lydia. The two girls are huddled together look just as confused and lost as John. Still, they follow their alpha out of the room quickly leaving John alone with his struggling son and this feeling in the pit of his stomach that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The day that Stiles was born was one of the happiest moments of his life. Though it didn't seem like it would be one at first. While his wife, Claudia, had looked upon the upcoming birth of their first child with unabashed enthusiasm, John was, quite frankly, scared out of his mind. Who was he to be put in charge of a little life unable to even fend for itself? Who was he to think that he could raise a little human into a responsible member of society when he saw so many failures daily in his job? He was beyond terrified at the prospect of being a dad and had somehow managed, in those uncertain days before the birth, to convince himself that he was going to be terrible at it.

And then Stiles was born.

Claudia had some difficulties. There were some very real moments of concern, but then the doctor placed this little, crinkled bundle of life in his arms, and it was over. Life as he knew it was utterly over because it didn't matter that he hadn't a clue what to do. It didn't matter that he was terrified beyond measure. All that mattered was that little life in his arms, looking up at him with eyes the color sunlight through whiskey. It was love at first sight and there are times when John still has to pinch himself just to prove that this life of his is not merely a dream but that Stiles is really and truly _his_.

After Claudia passed and John was left to raise their son on his own he knew it wouldn't always be sunshine and roses. He and Stiles had their share of screaming matches and knockdown, drag-out fights, but they always came back to one another in the end. There was always a tender moment afterwards when they would tearfully apologize to one another for the terrible things they had said and John prays that if this moment turns into one of those god awful fights, that they'll find there way back to each other in the end. Because Stiles is always going to be that tiny little life placed in his arms and John is always going to be completely and utterly enamored with him.

"Dad?" Stiles chokes a little on a dry throat. That damn oxygen mask is back and he fingers it idly when it muffles his words as he tries to remerge from sleep. "What happened?"

"You had a panic attack," John answers quietly, helping Stiles to lift the mask from off his face. He should really keep it on until the doc comes back to check on him, but John needs to talk to his son and the mask will only get in the way.

"Here," he offers, holding up that pink cup from before when Stiles tries to wet his mouth but can't. It's filled with ice water and he takes a few deep, greedy pulls.

"Better?" John asks when he's finished and his son nods before settling back against his pillows.

"Stiles…" he begins but he's not really sure how to phrase what it is he needs to say. His son looks up at him warily, as if he can guess what's about to happen, and John struggles to find the right words. "Stiles, I need… I need you to tell me about Donovan."

He knows that Stiles is fragile and that anything he says could send his son into another panic attack, but John can't put this off any longer. People are _dying_ and John is being manipulated and lied to by every single person around him it seems. He can't keep living like this; _they_ can't keep living like this so he doesn't back down when Stiles looks visibly shaken at the request.

"Dad…" he starts thickly, exhaustion, stress and pain misting his eyes over as he fights to contain mutinous emotions. "I… I c-can't tell you about that."

"Why not?"

"Because… I just can't." He darts his eyes away and swipes at them with a sleeve.

"Oh come on, Stiles. Don't give me that crap! Just tell me what the hell's going on!"

"I can't!" Stiles actually yells, turning angry eyes back on John.

"But why not!?" He pushes, leaning forward, desperation coloring his voice high and fast. "You used to come to me for everything, Stiles! When did that change? Why don't you _trust_ me anymore?!"

"God, Dad, it isn't that!" A single frustrated tear crests one of Stiles' eyelids and rolls, cutting a glistening path of moisture down one pale cheek. "I do trust you. It's just… you could never understand."

"Then help me understand, Stiles! Just talk to me, kid!" He tries to capture one of Stiles' hands in his own but the kid pulls it away before he can and it's like a sucker punch straight to the gut. Stiles' looks away again and his entire frame begins to shake.

"I can't," he whispers hoarsely and something ignites in John's gut.

"Oh for the love of god, Stiles!" He bellows and pushes out of his chair so hard it tips over and walks the length of the room on the force of his frustration alone. It's taking everything he's got not to put a fist through the wall and he rests his head against the cool of the closed hospital door when he reaches the other side of the room.

"I can't do this anymore, kid," he breathes out on a sigh so heavy it nearly pulls John down with it when he lets it go. "I can't take the lies and the secrecy and getting pulled into the middle of all this again. I can't take worrying that I'll get another call like the one last week. I just can't do it anymore, Stiles."

"Don't you think I haven't spent every day wishing I could tell you what's going on?" Stiles replies from the bed behind him, voice so rough and raw with emotion that John has no choice but to turn back around.

Stiles is quaking quietly under the weight of the burden he carries and John wants nothing more than to go to his son, wrap him in his arms like they did yesterday and comfort his boy. But anger and frustration keeps him rooted in place as Stiles goes on.

"Every day, Dad. I get up and I go to school and I see my friends and every goddamn day I wish I could tell you what I did. But I can't. I can't and I wont, Dad. Because I can't lose you, too."

The words seem to break some kind of barrier holding them in their own separate hells. Stiles descends down into the sobs that have been threatening him for a while now and John forgets his anger completely as he re-crosses the room in three large, looping strides. He brings down the bedrails the nurses put up after stabilizing Stiles earlier and wraps his disintegrating son up into his arms.

"You're not going to loose me," he croons, pulling Stiles in closer. "You'll never, ever loose me kid, because there's nothing in this world you could ever do that would ever make me stop loving you!"

"But you wouldn't be saying that if you knew," Stiles weeps into his shirt, unable to control the force of his tears. His sobs reverberate up into John's arms until he's quaking right along with his son.

He holds on for dear life. "You're my son, Stiles. My boy. My own flesh and blood. Nothing you could ever do will ever change that. I swear to God, kid."

"Even if I t-told you he's dead because of me?" Stiles stammers out and all the air is punched out of John's gut in an instant. "Even if I told you I killed him?"

Time does that thing where it shudders to a halt around him and for one mind numbing moment, John can scarcely breathe.

Of course.

It's all falling into place now and with agonizing clarity. The secrets, the lies, the unexplained changes in his son, all of it fits now and it drags John down into a pit of darkness he hasn't been in since Claudia died. Stiles must feel John freeze because he starts trying to push away from the circle of his arms.

"I told you. I told you!" He cries, struggling weakly in John's arms, but he doesn't let go. "I told you if you new I'd lose you!"

John finally does let go of his son at that and lifts himself off the bed, trying to process what's he's just heard.

…Donovan's dead and Stiles had something to do with it.

It seems so surreal, the thought so preposterous that he's having a hard time even wrapping his head around the _idea_ of it. If it's true then he's got to protect his boy… but at the same time he's the Sheriff of Beacon Hills for christ's sake; he can't just sweep this under the rug.

"Dad… please," Stiles calls for him from the bed, sounding younger than his 18 years, but John can't turn back around. Not yet.

"Tell me what happened." He says instead, careful to keep his voice devoid of emotion and Stiles goes silent.

"Turn around and look at me first." He finally replies a little hysterically but John ignores him and stays where he is.

"No more lies, Stiles. Just tell me what happened from the beginning and tell me the truth this time."

Stiles is quiet for a long moment behind him, breath hitching in his chest every so often from all the crying, but he eventually does do what John asks.

He goes through it all, every horrible detail with perfect clarity, and John can tell by the emotions making his words thick and the defeated way in which Stiles' speaks that he's getting the whole, messy truth of it all. He fights hard to maintain his composure through the entire thing, to not let his shoulders shake or to give in to the urge to turn back around and go to his son, but it's difficult. Quite possibly the most difficult thing he's ever done in his life.

When Stiles finally finishes a few minutes later and goes quiet behind him John does turn around then, slowly, and walks back over to the bed to settles himself down onto the mattress beside his son's legs. Stiles' weary eyes never stop tracking him like he's trying to read in John's body language or on his face what kind of a reaction he should prepare himself for. He also looks about ready to pass out again so John doesn't waste any time. He's reached a few conclusions of his own and it's time to share them with his exhausted, burned, scared shitless boy.

John's no fool. He knows what's been done is serious and something he can't ignore, but he somehow manages to smile softly. He leans forward, startling Stiles a little in the process when he captures his son's face gently between his hands, making those red rimmed, bloodshot eyes meet his own. Stiles' face is a mess of tears and snot and he's looking up at John with something so wounded hiding behind his eyes John almost can't go on, but he pulls some of that patented Stilinski strength from somewhere deep inside and somehow manages to go on.

"You and I need to get something straight," he begins, thumbing away a bit of the moisture still dampening Stiles' cheek. "You're my son, Stiles. And I will always fight to the death to protect you." More tears begin to work their way out of the corners of Stiles' eyes but John catches them. " _Especially_ ," he emphasizes when Stiles tries to look away again, "over something you had no control over."

Stiles' eyes go wide.

"It was self defense," John soothes, sweeping the sweat damned bangs off of Stiles' forehead as he releases his face. "That boy would've come after you _and_ me if you hadn't done what you did."

"But… But I killed him," Stiles stammers. "He's dead because of me." His boy looks so broken, shattered into a million pieces, and John will be damned if he stays that way.

"Kid, I've been a cop for a long time. There isn't a jury in the world that would ever convict you."

"There's not going to be one of those, is there?" Stiles asks, looking worried all of a sudden and John sighs.

"Any prosecutor in their right mind would be a fool to press charges against you based on what I just heard," John reassures but stays serious.

"But do you remember what I told you before? About how these things have a way of coming out in the end?" He thinks back on the conversation he had with Deputy Clark about library key cards while his son was asleep earlier.

Stiles nods.

"Well it's going to come out eventually, Stiles, but if you trust me, I'll do everything in my power to protect you."

"And what do I do about Scott? God, Dad, did you see the way he looked at me? Theo must have told him what happened."

"Wait," John interrupts, "Theo knows, too?"

Stiles nods again. "He was there with me that night in the library, or at least he said he was."

Well that could complicate things. "You saw him there? Theo?"

"No, but he saw me. He confronted me about it when we were up on the hospital roof."

"What were you doing on the roof? No, wait!" He stops Stiles with a hand when the kid actually starts to answer. "Don't tell me. I probably don't want to know, anyways." Stiles stays mum so John gets them back on track.

"Any reason to think Theo might have a different version of the events at the library?" Stiles narrows his eyes sharply at that and John realizes his mistake. "That's not what I meant, Stiles. I believe you, 100%, but you were the one who came to me wondering if Theo Raeken is who he says he is. I just want to make sure he doesn't have any reason to lie about what he saw."

"I don't think so," Stiles replies with a shake of the head after some thought. "We were talking about what happened in the jeep that night before we were attacked. He was telling me how he thought it was self defense."

"Okay, good."

"Dad, I'm glad you're on my side about what happened with Donovan and all, but he died and you're the friggin' Sheriff. Don't you have to report me for this or something?"

John pats his son's knee and tries to smile in a way that doesn't look completely forced. "Stiles, three days ago you were on a respirator and they weren't even sure you'd ever walk again. Let's just worry about getting you better and then we can decide what to do."

"Dad…"

"Stiles, please," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seriously kid, let me worry about this. Just concentrate on getting your strength back." His son looks like he wants to argue the matter further, but apparently gives up in the end. The energy he's expended from crying and confessing has clearly taken its toll and he fights just to stay awake.

"You rest now," John lulls, running his knuckles gently down Stiles now dry cheek. He takes a moment to relish the feeling because he knows as soon as Stiles comes off all these pain meds he's not going to let John get away with that anymore, and watches as his son drift off into a semi-peaceful sleep. When he's finally under, John pulls himself up off the bed and goes over to the window.

It's completely dark outside and he realizes he doesn't even know what time it is. He fishes the smartphone Stiles picked out for him last year from his trousers pocket and activates the display. It's 11:11pm, he notices with a sinking feeling of dread, and he's got 6 missed calls from the precinct. John has half a mind to chuck the damn phone and it's large, digital numbers broadcasting that damn time out the window, and when a strange feeling washes over him, he actually does it. He opens the window he's pretty sure Scott left open so he could sneak in at night, and tosses his cell phone out into the night, 11:11pm flashing at him as it tumbles through the air towards the ground.

Beacon Hills sits glittering under it's own light beneath him, wet from the recent rains. He watches the phone sail through the air and land on the ground with a satisfying splat, plastic and electronic components scattering in every direction on the wet pavement 3 stories below.

Maybe it wasn't the most adult thing to do, but he's tired. Tired of feeling like he's no longer in control of his own destiny. Tired of feeling utterly helpless over what's happening to his son. Because the truth of the matter is, he _is_ in control and he can no longer allow a silly thing like the time of day dictate to him when things are or are not going to go wrong! He's not going to let supernatural psychos come in and destroy his son's life or his town. He's stronger than all of it, put together, and so is Stiles.

…But a thing is only as good as the sum of its parts. And the only reason things have gotten as bad as they have is because some of their parts are broken. Scott, Malia, Lydia, Liam, and Stiles (hell, even John and Melissa) are out of sync somehow and he's got to get them working together again if any of them even hope to get out of this thing alive. Somehow they've managed to loose sight of the big picture and come hell or high water, John is going to make it right again.

Fueled by a kind of righteous fire, John snaps the window shut and stands for a long time just looking out over his beloved city and then finally his son. He might not know what's going to happen tomorrow or how they're going to handle what happened with Donovan, but John knows one thing for sure: he's not going to rest again until his son and his town are made safe. And the first step? Head back to the BHPD in the morning and throw that ugly, brown, 80's piece of shit clock in the garbage can where it belongs.

Because he's the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, as Deputy Bara was so keen to point out to him so many days ago, and there is nothing he wont do, no lengths he wont go, to protect the things that he loves.

* * *

 _A/N: There will be a short little prologue to follow, but this is the last regular chapter. I hope you've enjoyed my little soiree into the realm of Teen Wolf "what-if" as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I hope you'll take the time to stop by and check out some of my other stories._

 _Thanks to everyone for all the wonderful reviews and for all the follows and favorites. The response to this little piece here and over at AO3 has been truly amazing and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart._

 _As aways, keep dreaming and keep creating and I'll see you on the next one!_

 _~water4willows_


	12. Prologue

_A/N: Just a short little prologue that demanded to be included. Take it as you will. Stiles POV._

* * *

 **Prologue**

Pain. He never would have thought that one four-letter word could have so much control over his life.

But pain does control his life.

He wakes up with it. It goes with him to physical therapy. It eats with him. Stays by his side when people come to visit. It's even there when he goes to sleep at night and Stiles can't remember a time anymore when it wasn't his constant companion.

And it's not something he can easily ignore, either. It's not a dull ache or a slight nagging at the back of his mind. No, it's a sharp, slicing thing that never gives him a moment's peace. A never ending throbbing in his limbs that the morphine never manages to take away.

The pain likes to play games with him sometimes, letting him sleep peacefully one night then dragging him kicking and screaming from his slumber the next with spasm in his limbs so bad he cries out in the night. Sometimes his dad is there with him to talk him down from the worst of them. But now, more often than not, he's alone when it happens and on this particular night it pulls him from sleep with cry so loud he's afraid he's alerted the nurses. He tries to work through the pain, you see, knowing it will never let him be until he shows it who's boss, but tonight he's seriously considering hitting that call button and asking the on-call nurse for more meds. He contemplates this for a moment more, until another spams hits him so hard it has him seeing red.

Stiles closes his eyes against the pain, hearing his own voice whimper in his ear as he tries to stretch out the charlie horse taking over his lower half and is surprised when a warm hand wraps around his wrist. The touch should scare the shit out of him, but he's dreamt of this moment for so long that it doesn't faze him in the least. Instead he opens his eyes, expecting (no praying) to see Scott and really is startled this time when he finally sees who it is grasping his wrist under the low light of the overhead light.

"Sourwolf?" he lets out on a breath, relief at the receding pain so great all he can do is whisper the name with a barely there smile. "You came back."

Derek Hale, looking thinner than Stiles remembers him in a black t-shirt and jeans scrapes a chair across the tile floor and plops down into it, never breaking his contact with Stiles' wrist. He can see the thin tendrils of ebony making their way up the milky white skin of the werewolf's pale arm and watches they disappear up under his sleeve.

"Of course I came back." Derek smiles and Stiles gets lost in the pull of old memories for a moment.

"Thought you were off 'finding yourself' or sumthin'," he says drowsily. Without the pain, it's as if he's floating and it's hard to tell if the moment is even real.

Derek laughs lightly. "I was trying to, but then I heard this rumor that my former pack was in trouble, so naturally I had to come back."

"Scott's gonna be so glad you're here."

"I didn't come back just for him," Derek replies quietly, still holding tightly to Stiles' wrist. The relief from the pain is almost euphoric and he has to fight just to stay awake. Warmth like nothing he's ever felt before takes the place of the white-hot agony from before and it's pulling him down, down down…

"What happened, Stiles? Why are you in here?"

"Accident with my jeep," he mumbles, half asleep already. "Someone flipped it over with me still inside."

"Jesus. Are you okay?"

"No," he answers honestly. With Scott not talking to him and the business with Donovan hanging over his head, it's hard to imagine a time when he'll ever be okay.

Stiles looks down at his wrist and the contact Derek still maintains.

"How long can you stay?" He whispers, hating how weak this has all made him as moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes.

The thing is, they're not tears of sadness, but that of relief because he actually feels safe for the first time in months. Maybe even since before this whole mess with the Dread Doctors started. His Dad tries to help, but there's something about the quiet strength of the practically immortal werewolf sitting next to him that blankets him in a warm cloak of security.

"I'll be here as long as it takes," Derek promises, tendrils of black still working their way up his arm. Was there really that much pain? There must be because Derek is starting to show the effects. He's trying to hide them, but Stiles can see.

"Enough," he protests, attempting to pull his hand away, but Derek's hand holds firm.

"Do they have any idea?"

"What?" He feints nonchalance, but he thinks he understands what Derek is getting at.

"How much pain you're really in."

Stiles could cry. Finally someone understands. Someone gets it.

"No," he answers thickly, rubbing at his nose with his free hand. "No one is really talking to me at the moment."

"Oh?" Derek's eyebrows shoot up.

"It's complicated. Please don't make me go through it again."

"Ok, Stiles! Relax," the werewolf chides, pushing him back down into his pillows when he tries (and fails) to push himself up onto his elbows, "I wont… for now."

Stiles can live with that and lets his limbs relax again. His whole body relaxes actually and he's so tempted to just let sleep carry him away.

"Derek?" he mumbles, well on his way.

"Yeah?"

"…Stay?" He knows he sounds childish and completely ridiculous but Derek doesn't make fun of him like he expects. Instead the werewolf just smiles, pristine white teeth catching the light ever so slightly as he nods.

"I'm not going anywhere, Stiles," Derek promises and Stiles tumbles back into dreams that are actually pleasant for once, not entirely sure the werewolf at his side isn't just part of the dreams.

-FIN-

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks again for reading and don't forget to stop by that little box below and leave me your thoughts. I would love to hear from you, even if its just to leave some constructive criticism._


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